


A Whisper of Blood

by dreyrugr



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Natasha Romanov, Bro!Clint, But just as an aside, F/M, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, J.A.R.V.I.S. likes to pick on Clint, M/M, Mentions of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. plot, Not Age of Ultron Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War Compliant, Protective Steve Rogers, Re-Imagining Bleeding Edge Armor, Re-Imagining Comic-verse Extremis, Steve Feels, Steve Rogers-centric, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony-centric, all the feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-26 14:59:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7578547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreyrugr/pseuds/dreyrugr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He should have known: Experimental inventions equate unprecedented effects. Howard’s words of wisdom, if you will.</p><p>
  <i>I did try to warn you, Sir.</i>
</p><p>And, oh, yeah, J.A.R.V.I.S.’ voice mysteriously appearing in his head.</p><p>He huffs. Story of his life.</p><p> </p><p>Or, <i>the Mk IV ARC Reactor has unprecedented effects on Tony's biology. Tony is more concerned with the unprecedented effects Steve has on Tony's biology.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: Prolog

**Author's Note:**

> Song lyrics taken from Broken by Lifehouse.
> 
> All characters property of Marvel. Not mine.

A Whisper of Blood

 

[Part I: Prolog]

 

— _The broken clock is a comfort;_

_It helps me sleep tonight._

_Maybe it can stop Tomorrow from stealing all of my time._ —

 

The feather is beautiful in its hidden complexity. Small and brilliantly blood-red, the tendrils shimmer a rich gold, as if they were stained to form an intricate pattern of jaggèd edges.

Steve tends to stare at it, raised high over head as he lays in bed, and, in the low lighting of the New York night, the gold… _pulses_ . Like a heartbeat. Sometimes, he can almost hear it, the soft _th-thump-th-thump_.

He knows wishful thinking when he sees it, but no man can be blamed for hoping—hoping for a relentless companion.

He sighs. _If only._

With that dejected whisper, he folds his hand around the feather, tucks it close to his chest, and falls asleep.

 

That night, Steve doesn’t dream.

 

…

 

He is puttering around in the kitchen, as per his usual routine, when Hawkeye wanders in—shirtless, of course, because Steve quickly learned that this man has absolutely no sense of propriety, second to the notorious Tony Stark himself.

Steve tries what he hopes is a pleasant smile but probably either looks like a grimace or an overly bright grin. “Good morning,” he greets.

Barton eyes him like he just grew three heads. “Sure.”

Steve scowls. He’s beginning to think this generation has no manners whatsoever.

“Don’t mind him, Captain,” Romanov—or, rather, her voice—says. Steve really ought to start paying attention; he’s still iffy around her, former-assassin status notwithstanding. “He was raised in a cave by a pack of wolves.”

Barton shrugs nonchalantly. “What can I say? It was a hard life.”

And him. Steve can’t tell whether they’re being truthful or just pulling his leg. “Remind me to save some bones for you, then.”

Barton snorts. “Ladies and gentlemen, Captain America has a sense of humour.”

“It worries me how much you sound like Tony,” Doctor Banner says as he saunters into the kitchen, a mug of coffee fogging his glasses and what Steve believes might be a computer but simply looks like a tinted window on his other hand. “Good morning.”

Well, everyone but the good Doctor has no manners. “Good morning, Doctor Banner.”

Romanov wiggles her fingers. Barton turns his weïrded stare at the doctor.

Banner shifts under the stare. He clears his throat. “Tony not up yet?”

Romanov raises a delicate eyebrow. “You mean he actually slept last night?” It’s common knowledge in the Tower about Stark’s unethical sleeping habits—Steve has always wondered how the man isn’t dead yet.

He smiles ruefully. “Not so much. I suspect he stayed up all night working on a tablet after I kicked him out of the lab and J.A.R.V.I.S. shut him out of the workshop.”

Steve winces internally. A kicked-out-of-the-workshop Stark certainly doesn’t make a happy Stark—he’ll be a terrible nightmare for the rest of the week. He turns his gaze to the ceiling. “J.A.R.V.I.S., is Stark—”

“Right here.”

Sure enough, there is Tony Stark in all his glory: appearance as immaculate as ever in a cerulean, three-pieced suit, if not for the dark, almost black circles streaking under his eyes and the incredible pallour to his skin. Somehow, he still manages to look roguishly handsome.

“Though, technically, I should be halfway ‘round the world by now—”

“Several hours ago, Sir.”

“Shush, you; stop being helpful—and I’m pretty sure Pepper is out for my head, so, if you wouldn’t mind.” He procures a round device from his pocket. “Agent Romanov, be my Rushman for a night?”

 _What?_ Steve peers between Romanov and Stark, the cogs not turning.

Romanov takes the device from Stark’s hand, her mien dangerously cool. “I expect to be paid by the minute, Mister Stark.” She peers at him from under her lashes, her hand curling slowly around his wrist, as if she were—are they—? “Say, twenty per?”

He smirks, turning his hand to hold her wrist in turn. “Make that thirty.”

The smile that curves her lips could might as well be a wolf’s grin in another person’s body. “It’s a deal.”

Stark pulls her to his side, offering an arm that Romanov takes. He gestures vaguely in the air. “J.A.R.V.I.S. has all of the details. Good? Awesome. _Ciao!_ ”

They disappear down the hallway.

A silence overwhelms the room. Stark’s presence—or lack thereof—is jarring.

Banner clears his throat awkwardly. “Well, uh, I’ll be in the lab.” He leaves.

Something clinks on glass, and, when Steve turns to look, it’s Barton shoving spoonful of cereal after spoonful into his mouth. He raises a brow. “Wha’? Don’f loo’af me.”

Steve exhales a heavy breath and shakes his head. Sometimes, it feels like he’s the only adult amongst a bunch of children.

He goes back to preparing his breakfast and is only interrupted by Barton demanding some of the quiche he pulls freshly made out of the oven— _children_ , he swears.

Barton moans obscenely around an overly large bite. “O’f ma go’, ffif’if _amafin’_. Wha’fa hell gig ya fo?”

“My mom used to make it whenever she could.” It’s a wonder he can understand a word, much less a syllable, out of Barton’s mouth. “It wasn’t often, but I managed to memorize the recipe either way.”

The gibberish that follows next is impossible to understand, but Steve smiles and nods politely either way, even if what he hears sounds suspiciously like a vivid description of something vaguely, uh, _fondue_ ; though, he will never know how that particular story ends with “And then there were these fucking _giant tentacles_ trying to cram through the window like Houdini’s worst nightmare, and Coulson’s all like ‘I told you so; why don’t you listen to me _yadda-yadda_ ,’ but, see, thing is, how in the living fuck of all fucks was I supposed to know there was a _fucking kraken_ that was attracted to fucking bread of all things—”

There are a lot of colourful expletives in the proceeding lines.

 

Considering, life in the Big, Ugly Building is not so bad.

 

…

 

Admiring the feather—it becomes a ritual. So much so that he finds it hard to sleep without the comfort of the delicate plume burned to the back of his retinas.

He questions its origin, imagines the sort of bird it might have belonged to, but imagination only yields so much, and, more often than not, he winds up in a wide blank that has him passing round and round his quarters in a relentless fancy.

Eventually, curiosity outweighs his pride of resolving his not-quite problem alone, which leads him down to Doctor Banner’s laboratory.

He is rather affronted by the unwelcome receive.

Banner makes a face like that of a troubled, half-frightened man, as if the tiny plume in Steve’s hand holds the key to unlocking the destruction of the world. Or perhaps it is, yet again, a product of his overactive mind—either way, Banner’s expression doesn’t compute with what little Steve asked. “I can’t help you with—” He points at the feather. “With that.”

Unless Banner is surreptitiously afraid of avian, Steve honestly has no idea where this—whatever this is—is coming from. “I thought you are an expert on biology?”

Banner inches away from Steve. It’s not the most subtle behaviour. “It’s not about my expertise, Captain—it’s about what I am allowed to disclose.”

Steve tries not to let anger seep through, but the bull he could smell a mile and two away begs his ire. “If it is so classified, why did I find it jammed right into the crook between the door and the wall of the elevator? I’m sure S.H.I.E.L.D.—”

“It’s not S.H.I.E.L.D. I gave my silence to.” His hands rub and rub over and against each other, his gaze shifting from Steve’s face to feather, a nervous tick that Steve has come to learn suggests guilty anxiety in the past half year. “I’m sorry, but that’s all I can say. Just—” He sighs, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Whatever you do, don’t go flaunting that thing around.”

 

The plume glints, _pulse-pulse-puls_ ing a quietened heartbeat.

 

“And, Steve?” Banner breathes, and it’s a gust worthy of his greener counterpart. His shoulders sag, as if cut from a string, yet fire retains in his gaze. “Even if the whole damn universe is saying otherwise? Protect it like you would your mother’s ashes.”

Banner’s words have only inspired more perplexity, but somehow, some way, there is a bond of trust between them—however thin and fragmented it may be. And, though Steve knows he won’t leave the matter be, resolve ensnarls like a second skin. “I will.”

 

…

 

Without notice, the passing of many several months take his Time, a time in which a team of Misfits slowly and raggedly, brokenly became a family of sorts—a family Steve guides but relies on its members to be the glue that holds them together.

Or, at least, that’s what he would like to believe when he has to suffer through the unruly behaviour of what are supposed to be Earth’s Mightiest Heroes in the decontamination showers.

“A peculiar ornament, Captain,” Thor booms quietly. His hair tangles like dreadlocks under the water, the soap holding it in strange, curled up positions; Steve can still hear Clint and Tony’s blatant laughter at the sight.

It takes a moment too long to understand what Thor is referring to; Steve refuses to admit it out loud, but the hair really is distracting. He glances down at his chest, and, sure enough, hidden behind his and Bucky’s dog-tags, the feather manifests its own separate presence as it retains its brilliantly scarlet hues and fluffy volumes even under the subject of water. He decided to make it into a pendant after one too many times almost losing it in the heat of battle, when all it had was the protection of nothing more than his suit’s pocket. Besides, what better place is there for keeping watch than on his own self?

He fingers the plume softly. “The feather?”

Thor’s gaze, a hue bright and clear as a storm, drifts from its scrutiny of the feather to Steve’s eyes—it’s unnerving to see the true age of a millennia-year-old man being bared in a single glance. “The feather,” Thor asserts. “From where did you procure it?”

Something slimy slides down his shoulder and around his back until it drains down his leg; he makes a face at it, more than mildly disgusted. It smells _horrible._ “Something tells me you already know the answer to that.” Not that Steve has even the mildest clue—Bruce is a tough nut to crack. He understands the loyalty behind it, but woe is his curiosity.

Thor watches the slime travel from Steve’s leg to the drain with careful disinterest. “Nothing more than unfounded suspicions.”

“I never held you as one for speculation.” Natasha.

Steve jumps out of his skin at her unexpected presence, and then his face nearly burns off when, in a form of habit, he turns to look and finds she is _completely naked_ . “Jesus, _Natasha!_ ”

“Language!” Tony calls from across the steaming room. He really is never going to let him live that down, is he?

Clint cat-whistles.

Natasha cocks her hip, throwing an eyebrow up. “What? Can’t handle a dame in all her glory, _Steven_?”

When Steve twists to glare at her, he resolutely ignores his… _lower_ peripheral vision. “What are you doing in here?”

She shrugs. “I wanted to see how red you’d turn. Tony owes me a car now—you really do turn a lovely shade of pink”—her eyes travel downwards, decidedly seductively—“everywhere.”

Steve doesn’t groan in desperation, but it’s a near thing. Forget the children—he lives with a bunch of teenagers with nothing better to do on their downtime than gossip about each other.

Something bumps his hip. He doesn’t have to look down to know it’s Tony, a mischievous grin on his lips. “Admit it, Cap; you love us.”

He sighs. “Sometimes, I wonder why I ever do.”

The shift that Tony gives in his stance is miniscule, but it is all the information that Steve needs to know that Tony is incredibly uncomfortable with the turn of honesty. _Still_ , even after all of these years tighter than kin. They weren’t kidding when they said Tony Stark’s issues had issues. Not that any of them can judge, of course, but frustration aches at Steve’s heart—aches and longs for a closeness with Tony that can never be accomplished.

“So,” Tony says, deliberately undeliberate in the way only Tony can manage. “What’s up?”

Steve has to repeatedly remind himself that Tony is rather protective of his chest, and, _no_ , just because they are in the showers with nothing more than the skin on their backs does not mean he can ogle like a pig, but the brunet makes it exceptionally hard not to stare—it’s like he’s begging for the attention, and, considering Tony’s flamboyant nature, it’s probably not far from the truth. Not that Steve wants to assume that Tony is…is, uh, _something_ , but he can’t help the flare of hope that longs for Tony to glance his way. Just for a second. A moment at all.

“Uh,” is all Steve manages to say. How eloquent.

Natasha smiles. It’s eerie. “Do you really want to go that way, Stark?”

Once again, Steve is lost.

Tony returns the smile with the flair of a smirk. “That depends on whether you want to lose, Romanov.”

Her eyes flash. “Oh,” she purrs, “it’s _on_.”

 

Needless to say, the prank war that was destined to result was not to be missed—and, if it ended in several S.H.I.E.L.D. agents literally crying to the Director, well, let’s just say they weren’t the only casualties of war.

 

…

 

Several more months pass by, a time in which Steve has failed time and again to discontinue this…this _infatuation_ he has with a certain billionaire-genius-whatever. He understands the different times—don’t get him wrong—but it feels too much like he’s encroaching on Tony’s territory to the point of sexual harassment, and Steve is really not in the mood to have that particular conversation with Phil after that particularly embarrassing debriefing, no matter how innocuous and unflappably professional the agent may seem.

So, Steve resorts to backing off. Or tries to, at least. He’s not sure how one’s supposed to back off, per se, when no action has been taken on his, uh, _thing_ for Tony. Therefore, with that plan scrapped before it even began, he falls unto his last resort: desensitization.

Or, at least, yet again, tries to.

“Um,” Tony says with no small amount of hidden trepidation, “I’d rather not.”

He tries to quell the frustration, the blatant ire—to somehow take charge of his stupid emotions and yell at them to _can it for ten seconds; Tony’s just fine_ —and attempt to not show his displeasure at the umpteenth negative answer, but his patience is running thin. After Steve realized, upon one of Clint’s usual careless comments, just how vulnerable Tony was out of his armour, the anger at Tony’s utter lack of self-preservation instincts had taken a forefront with an unexpected vice.

[And, maybe, he thinks, if he’s being honest, he’s angry at himself for being unable to rid himself of the possibility of a sweaty Tony panting underneath him after throwing him around a little on the mat.]

He crosses his arms over his chest, feels the muscles flex. As most things related to Tony, the situation has already gotten out of hand and is rapidly spiraling into oblivion. “If you get caught without your suit—”

Tony rolls his eyes and throws a dismissive hand in the air. “I can take care of myself just fine, Captain Overprotective.” He peers into Steve’s eyes, staring his point with fiery indignance. “I held my own against several fire-breathing supersoldiers no problem-o. I’m not a goddamn damsel in distress.”

“I’m not saying you are—”

“Then, _what_ , Captain?” Tony explodes. “’Fraid I’ll fuck up one of your missions if I’m caught without my suit? Is that it?”

He grinds his teeth, furious despite himself—god, how Tony can get under his skin. “That’s not true, and you know it, Stark.”

Tony’s gaze burns; it almost hurts to stare back. It’s so obvious he doesn’t believe Steve it hurts somewhere deep in the chest like nothing else.

Steve steps into Tony’s personal space and takes his upper arms, gets close enough to count every last lash that flares around the eyes of this infuriating, beautiful man. In some distant part of Steve’s mind, he thinks he could just kiss Tony here and now right on the lips, and Tony would kiss back—would want it just as much as Steve aches for it. “Listen to me, Shellhead, and listen well,” he says, voice lowered and grave. “If something were to happen to you, I—” He chokes up, the thought alone…He shudders, overcome with misplaced grief.

“Wouldn’t have an Iron Man?” Tony finishes flippantly. “Rhodey’s got you covered.”

“Dammit, Tony, I could care less about Iron Man!” he erupts; “I care about the man under that metal armour who recklessly risks his life day to day without a moment’s hesitation.” He breathes heavily, distraught, poking a hard finger on the other man’s chest. The arc reactor clinks under the pressure. “I care about _you._ ”

Tony doesn’t say anything, just stands there looking down at their feet. Steve tries to read his expression, but his eyes, usually so open, are closed.

Then, quietly: “Let go of me.”

Steve backs away like he’s been burned. He crossed a line, the very kind Natasha had warned him against. How stupid could he have been, pushing into Tony like that?

Tony doesn’t run from the room like Steve expects him to—instead, he carefully scrutinizes Steve before pivoting on one foot and disappearing down the hall without another word.

 

He doesn’t see Tony for a while after that.

 

…

 

Steve snakes his hands through his hair, puffing air that _inflates-deflates_ his cheeks. He’s leaning over the island of the kitchen, slumped in his chair in a manner that his mother would have given him a hard time for. Turning in his seat, he peers over the empty kitchen—stares at the digital clock reading _14:32_.

Usually, Tony would be up by now, pouring himself a cup of coffee, and Steve would make him a breakfast of sorts, force him to rest off his feet and out of his mind for an hour or two. And, as they chattered, he’d hold Tony’s gaze a moment too long, imagining leaning in and whispering sweet nothings into his ear. _“I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you,”_ he’d say, or, _“I can’t seem to remember happiness without you by my side”_ —things that can’t be said. Things that could never be.

Sighing at his hopeless mind, Steve turns back around and finds Clint perched on the farthest counter. Really, how does this man always sneak up on him?

Clint is giving him his patented Man Do I Feel Sorry for You stare. “Troubles of the heart, Cap’n?”

“More or less.” Clint knows—well, actually, he’s pretty sure everyone in the Tower but Tony knows; Sam and Bucky tend to tease him not so surreptitiously often enough about it. “’Think I screwed up.”

Clint shrugs. “Figured as much. He hasn’t been ’round much lately.” He hops down from the counter and slides into a chair, resting the weight of his head on his palm as he leans sideways so he can face Steve. “What did you do?”

Steve shakes his head. “That’s just it: I don’t know.”

Clint raises a brow. “Well, you oughta’ve done somethin’. Stark’s eccentric as fuck, but he never does anything without reason.” Tony has never just disappeared like this, without a word to Miss Potts or Jarvis or Colonel Rhodes. Steve can still remember the A.I.’s blind panic—and who knew a computer could panic?—when Tony had simply taken a car and driven off to god-knows-where with, according to Jarvis, “a strangely blank expression I could not seem to place.”

Luckily, Tony returned some hours later but had secluded himself to his workshop thenceforth.

He rubs over his cheek, feels the light stubble there—ever since Tony left him stranded in the training room all those days ago, he hasn’t had the motivation to do much of anything, even things as simple as shaving. “I was trying to get him to do some hand-to-hand. Mister Hogan is a nice man and all, but he’s not exactly the best at fighting.”

Clint snorts. “Understatement of the year. I’ve seen ten year olds fight better than he does.”

Steve shoots Clint his Be Nice glare.

Clint raises his hands defensively. “What? Not my fault the truth hurts.” He waves his hands in a ‘moving on’ gesture. “Please tell me you didn’t insult Tony’s ability to fight.”

“Of course not.” He thinks, remapping his words. “At least, I don’t believe I did.”

Clint groans. “Oh, man, you’re so screwed. What did you say?”

Steve frowns; Clint isn’t exactly the most helpful at making him feel better. “He refused my offer to train, but I kept insisting, and he ended up taking it the wrong way; said having Iron Man in commission was all I was worried about.”

“And then what?”

He swallows. _And then I essentially told him that I love him so much I couldn’t bear to lose him._ “I told him I just wanted to keep the man under the suit safe.”

Clint stares at him. And stares. And stares some more.

It’s irksome. “What?”

Clint’s head thumps against the table. His shoulders start shaking. Great.

“Clint Barton, if you’re laughing at me—”

Clint’s guffaws fill the room.

Steve’s head thumps against the table.

Natasha enters the room, Thor trailing close behind. She leans in close to the tall blond, her voice a pseudo-whisper. “Let me guess, Steve said something incredibly stupid to Tony, and now Clint is laughing at him because of it?”

“Your assumption is as good as mine,” Thor shrugs.

 _“As correct as ever, Agent Romanov,”_ J.A.R.V.I.S. chimes; _“and, may I say, welcome home. Might I interest you in some freshly brewed coffee?”_

Natasha and Thor had gone off in the interim of the Tony Incident, as Steve is labeling it in his head, to…somewhere for S.H.I.E.L.D. business and to New Mexico to do some love rekindling, respectively. Steve laments their absence—perhaps with either of them there at the Tower, Steve wouldn’t have felt the idiotic need to confront Tony about a thing or two.

“Thank you, Jarvis,” she responds pleasantly. “What were the boys up to while I was gone?”

_“Agent Barton has been crawling through the air vents again, much to Sir’s displeasure.”_

Clint’s laugh turns into an indignant squawk. “Jarvis, man, that was our secret!”

_“I was not aware it was meant to be so.”_

Natasha has that blank-slate of a face that just screams Murder. “Clinton Francis Barton,” she says coolly—much too coolly—“what did we say about the air vents?”

Clint groans, thumping his head against the island; it sounds like it hurt. “Fuck me,” he mutters into the stone.

She raises a brow and says something in Russian—or what Steve thinks is Russian—and Clint promptly scrambles from the room like a bloodthirsty hound is snapping at his heels.

Thor laughs. “I did not know such a noble lady as yourself had such a tongue.” Steve suddenly very much doesn’t want to know what she said. _Ever._

_“I believe, Agent Romanov, you have just outdone Sir when he is in a particularly dark hissy fit. My many blessings.”_

Natasha laughs, the sound sweet and husky as a warm breeze; her green eyes shimmering brightly. It’s beautiful—distressing to know the action doesn’t appear more often.

Thor’s heavy steps bound in Steve’s ear and the next a hand thumps against his shoulder hard enough to make him huff. “My friend, your sadness pervades even through the halls of Valhalla. What weighs on your heart?”

Steve lifts his head, curls his lips. Thor has always had a way with smiles. “Love,” he confesses and sighs. “Or lack thereof.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “You boys are so melodramatic I could puke.”

Thor winks at her as he slides onto the stool next to Steve. “I’d say ’tis a specialty.”

“‘Specialty,’ my ass. The whole bunch of you are drama queens.”

 _“Sir’s horrid influence, I’m afraid.”_ J.A.R.V.I.S. almost sounds sorrowful.

Natasha groans. “Tell me about it,” she mutters and smacks her hand upside Steve’s head. “I’m blaming it on you—Tony’s a terrible nightmare at S.I. right now; he’s driving Pepper nuts. Go kiss and make up.”

So Tony is specifically avoiding him like the plague. How swell.

Steve glares at her, particularly at the ‘kiss’ comment; he honestly believes she enjoys getting under his skin. “And tell him what?” he says, making his voice sickeningly sweet; “‘Tony, it’s just that I love you, not that I don’t trust you’?”

Natasha shrugs. “Why not?”

Thor laughs. “His expression would write an epic for millennia to come.”

“Are you kidding me?” Clint suddenly pops in (apparently over his fright of Natasha). “Tony’d go ape-shit and not in the awesome way. I’m ninety percent sure he’s allergic to affection.”

Natasha raises a brow. “And you aren’t?”

_“Agent Barton, I believe you’d call that a ‘burn.’”_

Clint looks to the ceiling. “Jarvis, my man, I’m feeling incredibly dissed today.”

 _“Apologies.”_ He doesn’t sound apologetic at all.

“Stop bickering, you two,” Natasha intercedes. She turns to Steve. “If you don’t get your head out of your ass, I’ll do it for you. He’s as head-over-heels for you as you are for him.”

Steve looks at her—stares at those emerald eyes of hers that have caused and hold so much grief, searching for a spark of a lie. The hope that blooms in his chest is much too cruel to be crushed by a ruse. “Maybe I will,” he returns; “or maybe I won’t.”

Natasha huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “And, then, what? Mull over your indecision for the rest of your life?”

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” Clint agrees, and Steve gives him a look because he has zilch idea what that means. Seeing his look, Clint restates, “Give it a chance.”

 

_Give it a chance._

  
…

 


	2. Part II: Chapter One

 

[Part II: Chapter One]

 

— _I am damaged at best,_

 _Like you’ve already figured out._ —

 

Fine veins crawl through his skin, perforating his flesh as they dive and weave in and about: hiding under the line of his hair at the nape of his neck; webbing across his chest like a drunken spider had found itself a new home; sliding along the length of his arms and legs; curling around his shoulders and falling in a massive cloak throughout his back—he feels like some reject from _Avatar_ , minus the blue-thing they’ve got going and the giganti-Pepper-ness.

Much worse, he fucking _glows_.

He’d noticed the tendrils working their way some time (say, three, four months?) after the thing with Hammer at the StarkExpo; thought they were some shit side-effect from the palladium until they wouldn’t dissipate— _still_ —four years later. He added it up as palladium for the first few years—it really was a bitch; tormenting and aching long after he had replaced the arc’s core—but, considering Extremis should have fixed everything right up, the fact that those poisonous tendrils, invisible to the eye but _still fucking there_ , remained was a total red flag.

He should have known: Experimental inventions equate unprecedented effects. Howard’s words of wisdom, if you will.

_I did try to warn you, Sir._

And, oh, yeah, J.A.R.V.I.S.’ voice mysteriously appearing in his head.

He huffs. Story of his life.

Dragging his nails over his skin, he watches the flesh pale then _blue_ into long welts. If he wasn’t so fascinated, he’d feel like a giant distended jelly.

_“Sir, if you have the need to mutilate yourself, may I suggest a bout with the Hulk?”_

Tony grimaces; the A.I. echoes in his head and ears, two recordings that fall unsynchronized. “J, buddy, remember what we said about the thing?”

_“You have several ‘things,’ Sir.”_

He cringes. “ _That_ thing.”

He can almost hear the metaphorical bell that goes off in J.A.R.V.I.S.’ nonexistent head. _Of course. ‘_ That _’ thing. As eloquent as ever, Sir; I am truly fascinated by the goings of your mind._

“Don’t give me that sass, mister.” He rolls his sleeve down and readjusts his cufflinks—he has a charity tonight, one Pepper has been harassing him about enough times the past two weeks that he has actually managed to remember in time. “Composition analysis done yet?”

_Fifteen minutes, four seconds remaining._

“Awesome.” Tony reaches around himself, unhooks his suit jacket from the back of the chair, and, absentmindedly, slides into the garment with practiced ease. Leaning over the pitch-black surface of the desk, he peers at his reflection and rubs at the high point of his cheek, scrutinizes the cerulean aurora that blooms softly under his touch.

He tries not to feel like one of Howard’s rejected experiments and fails miserably.

He huffs under his breath. “‘Greatest creation,’ my ass.”

“It is a fine piece of ass.”

Tony nearly jumps out of his skin, whirling around to face the unexpected intruder. “How did you get in here?” he demands and narrows his eyes at the redhead strutting around his workshop as if she owned the place—well, actually, that’s just his territorial side speaking, like, eighty-five percent there. He’s pretty sure Natasha is trying her damn best at appearing non-threatening while not losing any ground, but Tony knows her too well for that to work here. “J.A.R.V.I.S. has the lab on lock-down.”

Natasha fingers a screwdriver lying lone on a table, peering at him through her lashes. She’s dressed in a white flowing dress that accentuates her sinful curves lovingly; he didn’t know she will be attending the gala. “You know that doesn’t work on me.”

 _Touché,_ Tony admits. “What do you want?”

She shrugs, and the motion follows down her bare shoulder and seeps into her cocked hip. Everything about her is so damn smooth. “A talk.”

Okay. He can do that. Waiting for her to proceed, he leans back against his chair, trying for impalpable but probably just looking helplessly disheveled. “Pray talk.”

She shifts, but the movement doesn’t register with the rest of her body. It stutters. Hesitates. It’s so out of norm that it snaps all of Tony’s attention unto her, his focus unrelentingly accessing. Her lips part, yet no words seem to be able to flow out.

A tense silence stretches between them.

Natasha stiffens her posture, and she’s so much the soldier he knows she can be that Tony almost laughs. “I need your advice.”

Okay, now, _that_ he cannot do. He peers at her disbelievingly. “Come again?”

She frowns, lips flattening into a firm line. “You heard me,” she hisses. “Can you do it or not?”

“Yeesh. Twitchy much?” He feels like he’s being forced to trudge through a minefield for A Very Important Mission That Must Not Be Named—typical Black Widow. “To the best of my ability, and, considering what you’re looking for, it’s not that bright.”

She doesn’t roll her eyes, but he knows she wants to by the way she cranes her neck. “I trust your judgement on this.”

He frowns. “You have poor instincts, then, O’ Miss Superspy.” Something twirls through the air and clonks him on the head. “Ow!” he yelps, rubbing at the sore spot. “What the hell? Did you just throw a screwdriver at me?”

Natasha merely raises a deadly eyebrow at him. “Shut up for ten seconds before I change my mind.”

Tony rather likes his head intact, thank you very much; he can zip it for five. Sort of. Not really. “I’m all ears.”

Natasha bites her lip—why would she do that; she never does that; _the world must be ending_ —and then promptly releases it to give Tony a Look. “Listen for five damn seconds before freaking out on me,” she says, but what Tony hears is something more along the lines of overly abundant, colorful expletives and indescribably graphic _gore_.

He manages a nod.

She breathes an exasperated huff. “What can you tell me about Bruce?”

He cranes his neck; his hearing must be malfunctioning. “Come again?”

A muscle in her jaw jumps, her cheeks—is she—is she _blushing?_ Tony cannot believe his eyes; _the world is ending._ Holy shit on a stick, he needs to immortalize this moment. “I’m not— _Tony_ , the world is not ending. And don’t you dare take a damn picture.”

Really, why does everyone know what he’s thinking? This is—this is outrageous. Like, what is this? This—this is genius-playboy-billionaire-philanthropist endangerment. He needs—he needs Pepper. Where the hell is Pepper? He needs his lawyers, like, _yesterday_ —

“ _Focus_ ,” Natasha snaps. “You have the attention span of Clint, and, trust me, that is _not_ a compliment.” She breathes, massaging her temple. Why did she think this was a good idea again?

Right. Because the only thing Tony is blind to is himself.

“Go for it,” Tony says, the confidence he exudes much too flippant. Or perhaps that’s just her thoughts colouring his actions.

She raises a brow, scrutinizes every blink of his eyes, every last twitch of his face—dreading for a lie yet finding none. Sometimes, it scares her how well Tony knows her. “You’re not just saying that,” she asks.

“No, I’m saying that because I want to have awesome Hulk-sex, but I can’t ’cause Brucy-bear is as straight as a dry noodle, so I want you to have it for me so I can grill you for all of the dirty, little secrets,” Tony deadpans, rolling his eyes. “Yes, _Jesus_ , he likes you; the amount of times he looks at you like a kicked puppy searching for its lost owner is unbearable, for fuck’s sake.”

Well, she’ll have to rectify that now, wouldn’t she? Natasha smiles, and it falls easy on her lips—for once, the world breathes easy as a weight lifts from her shoulders.

“Let’s go,” she says, jerking her head at the door. “I’m your plus-one for the evening. And don’t think for a second you are going to get away from telling me what the hell happened while I was gone.”

Tony grins. Internally, he’s desperately looking for a Way Out—Pepper is seriously going to kill him for this one. Actually, scratch that: Pepper is going to kill him and then resuscitate him just to maim him all over again. “Why, Agent Romanov, I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t,” she lies, tying her arm around his and leading him out of the workshop. “I owe Pepper a favour.”

 _Sir,_ J.A.R.V.I.S. interrupts quietly—or as quietly as one can in another person’s head—as they descend in the elevator towards the garage level, _what shall I do with the results?_

He signals ‘save’ at one of  J.A.R.V.I.S.’ sensors, hoping Natasha catches it as one of his Things against all chance instead of a silent conversation, but all bets go towards her cataloging the action somewhere in the back of her Spy Master mind. Well, at least no one has accused him of being overly optimistic. He grimaces. “I’m not a pathetic twelve-year-old who needs a babysitter to go to the park.”

“No, you are a pathetic two-year-old who doesn’t know his way out of his ass.”

“Please,” he says, raising his nose into the air, “I’m at least four and three-quarters.”

Natasha doesn’t laugh, but it’s a near thing. “You’re not helping your case here, Stark.”

“Who says I want to?” he retorts. “I happen to like my babysitters. J.A.R.V.I.S. is an expert example.”

 _To my unfortunate capabilities,_ the A.I. agrees, _indeed, Sir._

Tony hides the smile that grows on his lips.

Natasha eyes him from the corner of her eye. “What’s the smile for?”

He tilts his head in her direction, and the smile grows into a full grin. “Can’t a man be happy to have a beautiful woman at his arm?” It’s ‘Tony’ enough for Natasha to leave it be, but he can tell from the keenness of her gaze that she doesn’t buy it for a moment. He rolls his eyes. “I swear I’m not being a creep.”

“That’s what Clint would say,” she rebukes; “and we all know the truth.” It’s said in a half-joking manner, but Tony knows Natasha enough to know he’s stripped one of her wires—for better or for worse he isn’t sure, but he trusts her not to go spilling everything to Fury. He makes a mental note to be wary of Barton within the approximate week, considering the strange bond between the Twinssassins.

They exit the elevator, making a turn down the overly wide hall, and come up to the garage, where Happy is already standing there at the ready with a door open to the day’s choice of car.

“Evening, Boss.”

Tony smiles at Happy, pleased to see an old face. “How’s the new phone working for you?”

Happy shrugs. Ever the one to be baffled by anything beyond twelve buttons, it’s a considerable feat. “The camera switch-thing is still acting up.”

Tony swallows the urge to snort in amusement. “Uh-huh,” he says as he slides into the car, Natasha following close behind him.

Happy closes the door and climbs into the driver’s seat, and the car roars to life in a shivering purr as they drive off into the city night. It’s still a strange sight, after all of those years spent practically hanging over the ocean in the more rural parts of Malibu. The New York night overflows with noise, a murmur that rumbles in his ears through the matter of the car.

Tony continues, as if uninterrupted, “Did you try saying ‘switch camera’?”

By the total look of “wha—?” Happy’s eyebrows make through the rearview mirror, it probably never even occurred to the man. “You know all that mumbo-jumbo isn’t my thing, Boss.”

Natasha smiles in a very ‘I’m trying very hard not to laugh at you but am failing epically anyway.’

Tony makes a face. ‘Mumbo-jumbo?’ Is that what his tech has been reduced to? The only person who is as awful in modern technology is probably Thor, but at least the demigod has the sense not to go around calling his stuff _mumbo-jumbo_ , if only because the poor guy is so stumped by Midgardian technology that he is reduced to making weïrd expressions at it. Seriously, _mumbo-jumbo_? What the hell? “I’ll ignore that blasphemy since I’m in such a giving mood.”

Natasha huffs. “If you were perpetually in a ‘giving mood’”—Tony doesn’t particularly like the way she says that—“the world would be doomed.”

“That’s an insult to my philantrophous heart.”

“‘Philantrophous’ is not a word, Tony.”

“And now you sound like Pepper. Why does everyone sound like Pepper? Happy—Happy, Hap, the heart of my life, protect me from this vileness.”

Happy peers at him through the mirror with a rather unimpressed expression. “Last I tried that I was nearly choked to death by a pair of thighs.”

Natasha smiles pleasantly. “It was good exercise.”

Happy grumbles something under his breath. The ride passes in silence.

They pass under a particularly bright lamppost, the light blinding as it refracts into a distorted sun through the glass of his window. It catches against the shimmering white of Natasha’s dress, makes it effervesce in stars.

The light blends for an undiscernible time. A memory sparks:

[ _His mother dancing across the empty ballroom of the old mansion, humming to a forgotten tune._

_The cacophony of glass shattering._

_Howard, snarling._

_Tony, the proclaimed Devil's Consort. The Fairy. The Sissy._

_To fuck off and die in a shit-hole for all Howard cared._

_The quiet shimmer of a silken dress, twirling lonesome under the spark of moonlight._

_The pain in his chest, dulled and cold like abandoned metal in a winter night._ ]

That was the last time he saw either of his parents, he thinks, some years before they’d both gotten killed in an accident or by the Winter Soldier or by whatever or whomever it had been.

Fun times, those.

“Where did you get that dress?” he asks, not especially demure.

Natasha shifts her legs, folding one over the other. The silken cloth slides down her thigh, revealing a wide expanse of pale, pale skin. She’s distracting him on purpose. “Storage.”

Tony doesn’t ask further—he’s not actually interested where or how she managed to procure it, much less why she was snooping through ‘storage,’ mostly in part because it looks miles better on Natasha than it ever did on Maria. It’ll make for a better memory, if nothing else.

The car pulls to a stop, and the sounds in the city are suddenly deafening as people’s voices rise into a garbled mess. They know who they are, and the mad scramble to catch the first glimpse could rival with Clint’s peculiar need to remain updated with every episode of Supernatural (something or other about ‘Bromance’ walking a fine line with romance or whatever).

Happy pulls his door open, and Tony slides out with a familiar grace; Natasha following just as easily at his arm in the next moment. The crowd is on them now, Happy pushing people to the side as reporters and fans alike practically topple over each other.

_“—ister Stark, what is your position on Mutant rights—”_

_“—Tony! Tony! Oh, my god, it’s Tony St—”_

_“—Miss Rushman, a word, please—”_

_“—y, remember me? Back at the hotel on—”_

_“Miss Rushman!”_

The French doors close behind their backs, and the relative quiet that proceeds is like the boom of a gun.

Natasha puffs air at his ear, almost as tall as him in those stilettos. “That’s always fun,” she mutters. “I almost miss Monaco.”

Tony snorts. “You mean that time when I was almost killed by a megalomaniac hell-bent on revenge? Honey, anything is better than trying to walk through a crowd with the claws of the honorable mentions of high class society.”

Natasha hums. “What a sad life you lead, мой котенок.”

“I’m not a cat,” Tony protests at the endearment, feeling something fuzzy and warm despite himself. “And you lead it just as well as I do.”

“Sure you are,” she returns, ignoring the latter half of his retort; “all prickly and territorial over everything you’ve rubbed your face all over.”

He has a dissent forming at the tip of his tongue when Smarmy Number One approaches at a purposefully sedate pace, a flute of champagne sizzling between the man’s chubby fingers. The man has a balding horseshoe and a set of plump lips that seem smeared with uncontrollable spit that, in Tony’s honest opinion, is truly complimentary to the golden star-leaf-thingamajig the man sports on his chest. Ah, Tony remembers with a distinct dislike, Major Powell of the U.S. Marine Corps, A.K.A. Smarmy Forever Stuck as Major for the Past Twenty-Nine Years.

Smarmy Forever Stuck as Major for the Past Twenty-Nine Years gestures with the flute, and liquid splatters to the floor. Oh, _joy_ . “Mister Stark!” he says, overly fake-excited, “what a _pleasure_.” His gaze doesn’t so much as differ in Natasha’s direction, establishing her as nothing more than an object. Tony snorts. And people wonder why the guy hasn’t moved position in the past three decades?

Tony pretends Smarmy Forever Stuck as Major for the Past Twenty-Nine Years is nothing but unpleasant air and keeps sauntering forth, eyes fixed forward. He’ll deal with the fall-out later with Pepper; he’s in no mood to see a perfectly lovely woman, much less Natasha Badass Romanov, be held as a pretty, little ornament made to hang at a man’s arm.

“Vile man, that,” Natasha murmurs; “I’d love to see his face when I smash my heel into his balls.”

Tony laughs; he loves how casual Natasha is when describing another man’s torture. “Sadly, he’s not the worst. Steer clear of I Eat Crap for Lunch and Shit for Dinner over there, seven o’clock in all-white. His hands tend to wander about into unwanted places—and I truly mean ‘ _into_.’”

She laughs, but it’s an act, meant to draw in attention to her position against Tony’s side. Predictably, people turn to stare, some women’s face going so far as to curl in jealousy—the press has seen ‘Natalie Rushman’ in this same position for one too many times, and people have begun to draw conclusions. It’s all a ploy, but it has worked wonders to draw away attention from the fall-out of his and Pepper’s relationship. All Natasha had said on the matter was an arched, “Shut up and let me do what I do.” They were wise enough—for once, in Tony’s case—not to argue.

“I’ll save you the breath from that particular story, since I know you already have something to give me in return for tonight.” Her voice is lascivious, a tone he is inclined to believe considering her love for blades as to Tony’s more than mild obsession with engines.

“It’s not an especially exciting story, either way,” he counters.

And then Smarmy Number Two appears. Perfect timing, as always. Couldn’t people take a hint so they could reach their seats in peace?

“Lovely to see you again, Tony,” Number Two says, her hand gliding down his suit jacket in a straight face to show off the glinting diamond on her finger. He tries not to feel sexually harassed and fails excruciatingly. “Oh,” she startles, the smudgy mascara on her lashes making her eyes overly large; “and how rude of me. Miss Potts, I presume?” She extends that same hand again towards Natasha, curling it sideways in a gesture stuck between a handshake and kiss-my-hand-bitch.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says slowly, softly; “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m feeling quite faint. There seems to be this… _strange_ smell wafting about—some sort of perfume?” She sniffles the air, and her nose curls. “God, what _is_ that? _Claire de la Lune_ ? It’s so _dreadful_.”

The woman stifles, an angry flush coming to her cheeks. She turns on her heel with a huff, reeking _Claire de la Lune_ along her wake.

Tony guffaws internally. _J.A.R.V.I.S., honey, please tell me you got that?_

 _As always, Sir,_ J.A.R.V.I.S. says jovially—how can J.A.R.V.I.S. sound _happy_ ; when did that happen; the world must truly be at its apocalyptic ending; what is this; like, no, seriously, _what_ — _I am forever at your service. Shall I add the file under Badassery Number Ninety-Seven?_

 _You know the one_ , Tony agrees. _Also, kindly inform Thor that if he tries to use lighting to make popcorn one more time I will withhold Pop-Tart privileges._

Natasha eyes him strangely again, and Tony shrugs. He’s not exactly in the mood to explain his sudden technopathic abilities. For once, he’d like to enjoy a nice evening out with a friend.

“You’ve been acting strange lately,” she says, slowly, carefully, as if he were some cat with a bad case of PTSD, in a very ‘what gives?’ manner. “I’d like to say ever since you’ve been avoiding the Captain, but I know you, and you’ve been in this…mood for a while. Ever since the Mandarin.”

Tony tries not to panic at her damning accuracy, but, fuck, how does she know that? Not even Tony had realized what was wrong all that time ago—lost in his head, he’d like to say, understandably more than usual, dealing with the repercussions of the reality of how utterly vulnerable they all really are—until J.A.R.V.I.S. had informed him aloud, in that spine-curling echo, that there was some anomaly with his brainwaves. And that he was registering that stupid, fucking _glow_ under gamma visualization.

Needless to say, he was more than freaked when he realized his, uh, luminous veins had something to do with J.A.R.V.I.S. talking to him in his head—and that sentence will never be anything less than weïrd, will it?

“It’s not—” he tries. Blanks. Denial has been his closest friend, but not even the Palladium Stint, as disgustingly awful and grievously lasting as it had been, could account for the…whatever this is.

“It’s not?” Natasha reiterates, quietly in barely a breath—waiting—knowing, somehow, the delicacy of the situation. She tilts her head and stops Tony’s steps with a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes, keen, pierce through his joltingly. “It’s not what, Tony?” she asks softly, perusing his face with an intensity that is almost frightening. “What aren’t you telling us?”

“I’m not—” Tony begins, but what the hell is the point any longer? She knows; he’s seventy-nine percent sure Steve knows already, what with his ‘man under the suit’ speech; Bruce has known since, like, forever; Clint will know by the end of the night—better yield now before he stumbles ahead. He blows a sigh. “Fuck me…Later, all right? Let’s get this schmoozing over with.”

Natasha relents—barely, at that, if the way her nails claw into his skin throughout the evening is any indication, but Tony will take the concession wherever he can get it.

 

…

 

‘Later’ doesn’t quite come.

Actually, allow him to reiterate: ‘later’ comes but not in the form of a certain Deadly Assassin. It comes worse.

As Pepper.

And, before the author unfolds the recounting of a rather unilateral conversation, Tony would like to make known that this is in no way his fault. Really.

“And _you didn’t do anything for two years?_ ” Pepper screeches. He’s pretty sure the whole damn of Manhattan can hear. “Tony, are you _insane_ ? What the hell were you thinking? What if you were _dying_ —what if—dammit, Tony, you promised!”

Her beautiful, iron-tainted hair is flocking freely from her once-neat bun. Tony has the insane urge to reconfigure the stray strands in that perfect algorithm resting along her head, but he ensnarls the urge viciously—it isn’t his place anymore, not since a long time, and, even if it were, there’s no place for that now, either way. He knew Natasha would be spilling his deep, dirty secrets to Pepper-Ears (and Archer-Ears, but Tony is not touching the latter with a ten-foot pole), but he had been accounting for some weeks’ time.   _Not the very next day._

“Pep—” he tries to cut into her rant, but she stomps over him as if he were merely an insufferable fly on the wall.

“You promised not to do this anymore! How am I supposed to live without you? What part of ‘you’re all I have’ hasn’t gotten through that thick skull of yours? _God_ , I could _throttle_ you.” She clenches her hands before her in the air, mimicking Tony’s neck. Tony is entirely positive she would, if she weren’t such a law-abiding citizen. “You start going bioluminescent, _and the first thing that comes to your head is ‘it’s probably some side effect’?_ ”

“Honey, Pep—honey plum, love of my life, calm down, all right?” Tony tries, taking the opportunity as Pepper pauses for breath. “I’m fine; it’s fine. Everything is just _fine_. Nothing to worry about.” He makes a twirl, arms raised at his sides. “See? I’m all good. So what if J.A.R.V.I.S. is in my head—”

“Jarvis is in— _Jarvis is in your head?_ ” she screeches and smacks him across the arm several times with the back of her hand. “In what dictionary is that defined as ‘ _fine_ ’! God, you really want me to kill you, don’t you? What the hell is _your_ _problem_? Why do you keep insisting on shredding ten years off my life every other Tuesday?” Her hand is a steady beat against his arm now, continuously punching and punching with every pointed word. “Is this _fun_ for you? Is this _amusing_? Do you _enjoy_ torturing me like this? We had a deal, Tony! A deal! No more—no more of this…this _nonsense_ —this—this _dying_ stint you seem to be so addicted to. You promised me after the Mandarin—” Her voice breaks on a sob, and tears began leaking down her cheeks in endless streams. “You _promised_.”

Tony gathers her into his arms, smothering her against him. His arm hurts like a bitch now, but that’s nothing in the face of Pepper’s pain. He hates seeing her like this, hates seeing those tears.

He really can’t do anything right by this amazing woman, can he?

“I know,” he soothes, rubbing up and down her spine in gentle strokes; “I know. I didn’t see this coming either, okay? I really did think I was going crazy for a while there, thinking I was _glowing_ , for fuck’s sake, until J—but that’s not the point,” he quickly changes at the twitch she gives to his Science Mode. “By the time I was already hearing J.A.R.V.I.S. in my head—and, god, that is so fucking weïrd to say; you have no idea—I was already so used to it that it kept slipping my mind. You know how I get.” And, god, does she ever—only person who stood at his side and could truly claim a modicum of comprehension over anything that goes on in his head. He massages her arm, kneading the flesh the way he knows is calming. “I’m not dying from this, all right?” Tony retracts her from his chest—aches to see the redness of her eyes, the misery in the pinched corners of her mouth—and locks his gaze with hers, holding steady. “I solemnly swear. Promise.”

“You fucking better,” she mutters, demure; “I hate job-hunting.”

She untangles from him not without a hint of reluctance, wipes at her eyes with a crumpled piece of tissue she pulls from her pocket. They smile at each other.

It’s awkward.

Tony grimaces; he hates dealing with all of the ‘We used to be in a relationship but realized we’re _really_ not cut out for each other ’cause one of us is a messed up fuck-up with a martyr complex’ (though, admittedly, that last part is Tony’s personal opinion).

He forces his face to merge into something softer—something that doesn’t quite seem like he’s ready to defenestrate himself to avoid all of these… _feelings_. “If that’ll be all, Miss Potts?”

“That will be all, Mister Stark.” The familiar banter is easy—if anything, Pepper stops looking as though she’d do the honors of throwing him out the window. She smacks him one last time, sniffling wetly. “Bastard.” She jerks her head in the direction of the blackened glass doors. “We should—you should go talk to them, especially Steve. You know how he gets when you keep stuff like this from him.”

Tony frowns because _what_? “Uh, no, pretty sure I don’t.”

She squints at him, searching his expression and, finding zilch, sighs heavily. “You really are clueless, aren’t you?”

He hums, pursing his lips faux-thoughtfully. “How about we leave the Captain out of this equation until I figure this out completely, yeah?”

Pepper gives him a flat stare. “I am seriously two seconds away from throttling you, Stark; _don’t_ mess with me. You talk to the rest of the Avengers like the exemplary teammate you are—”

Tony snorts. Right. ‘Exemplary.’ Totally.

“— _like the exemplary teammate you are_ ,” she stresses, “or I’ll sic Rhodey on you, and we both know how that’ll fall out. Now, _go_ ,” she says, shoving him towards the doors.

Tony grumbles the whole way there, dragging his feet childishly. He can practically hear Pepper’s eye-roll from across the room.

The door snaps inward two inches from Tony’s nose. Natasha’s glare greets him, solidly liquid green and deadly.

“Move it, Stark. I’ve assembled the rest of the Avengers in the penthouse,” she says—and is that _glee_ he hears in her tone? He dreads the blackmail fodder already.

“You couldn’t have waited—oh, I don’t know—half an hour until I showered and changed?” He’s still wearing last night’s tux, since Pepper’s call had come two hours after they left the gala and he had been busy going over some of the data J.A.R.V.I.S. had collected for him on his Condition. “I mean, really, have pity for a man.” He does feel oddly as if were being marched to his death, what with the sensational grip Natasha has on his arm. Her nails are really something else—perfectly ordinary-looking yet as deadly as sharpened vibranium. “Do you mind loosening that death-grip you’ve got—okay, yep, shutting up now, _yow_ . Good god, woman, those are some—kuh- _laws!_ Claws! _Claws!_ This is tantamount to torture, Jesus H. Christ…”

…

 

The Avengers are congregated in the common floor of the penthouse levels, loitering about on _Tony_ ’s couch and in _Tony_ ’s kitchen—seriously, there’s a perfectly good kitchen and living room in the lower levels; why do they always insist on invading _Tony’s_ space—doing something or other. Even that Sam Guy and Steve’s fellow defrosted pal are there. Which, wow, would you look at that. Weïrd.

“Hi! Uh, welcome, I think, except, you know, you already did that and sort of, kind of…live here,” he drifts off. “Okay, seriously, why are you people looking at me that way? It’s the suit, isn’t it?” He glares at Natasha. “See, you never listen to me. Now they think I’m an unhygienic pig living in my own filthy—okay, just—”

They are still giving him that Look, the type as if he has spontaneously combusted or sprouted a second head like Reed Richard’s worst nightmare. It’s not particularly new, yet it is alarming when it’s mixed with what might possibly be concern but is probably just his overactive imagination.

“—somebody tell me _why_ you are all staring at me like that, or I _will_ spontaneously combust a head”—and, oops, that did not come out right; sleep-deprivation starting to emanate there—“or something.”

He turns to Sam Guy, whom he still doesn’t really know, and raises his eyebrows at him expectantly.

Sam Guy looks around the room, his muscled—why is everyone Cap knows so muscle-y—arms crossed over his chest, one resting on the other so that he can gesture about. “Hey, don’t look at me; I’m just here for the show.”

 _What show?_ he says—or portrays or whatever it is he actually does—to J.A.R.V.I.S. and receives, rather unhelpfully, the mental equivalent of a shrug.

“What show?” Tony reiterates out loud. His eyes catch on Thor, who is studiously staring at him as he is wont to do whenever Tony is within the immediate vicinity. Except with more frowning. And glowering. “Anything you want to share with the class, Big Guy?”

Thor shakes his head dismissively. “You, my friend, are a true wonder among mortals.”

His eyebrows draw together because _what_. “Uh, sure thing. Happy to oblige.” His eyes naturally drift over to Clint, who is—yet again—perched on the corner overlooking the city, high over ground.

Clint's hands rise defensively. “Hey, man, don't look at me. I'm just as pissed as they are.”

Is that what this is? Everyone is merely overly pissed off by him? Well. That's boring. _Everyone_ is always pissed off by Tony, no matter if they are the Supervillain of the Week or Nicholas J. Fury. He tells them as much, and Cap's face does this weïrd thing where it kind of goes all— _twitchy_ and stuff, a deep furrow between his brows.

_Hoo, boy, here we go._

Steve breathes deeply, fighting the urge to bow to his frustrations. His inability to protect Tony, marked by Tony’s superb disregard for his well-being and apparent ability to perceive keenly the human character that has everything _not_ to do with Tony himself―all of it is encompassed into the curl of his fists and the hard-set of his façade, the deeper breath of his lungs and crumbling fire in his veins. “Tony―” he begins but fails at words, tongue twisted in emotions.

Bucky snickers quietly beside him, the jerk. “Love got your tongue, Captain?” he says under breath, the sound only picked up by Steve’s sensitive hearing.

Steve scowls.

“What the Captain here means to say,” Rhodey picks up, and, yeah, that’s his You Better Hope to High And Hell that You Are _Dead_ within the Next Millisecond Or You’ll Wish You Were Never Born tone; “is that we―and by ‘we’ I largely mean ‘ _I_ ’―are going to beat your stupid ass for pulling this shit. _Again_.”

Ugh. Okay, so, Tony admits he _might_ have royally screwed up on this one, but it’s not as if anyone―besides Bruce, whom he told some time after the Mandarin, before the rest of the Avengers + Add-Ons started to pop up like baby bunnies―could have helped because _squishy brain science-y genius things_. And, well, he supposes sticking to ‘It kept slipping my mind’ won’t go swell here, unlike with Pepper, who understands his dubious ways yet doesn’t set forth to actively change them unless they reach Tony Is Going to Get Himself Killed levels. Even, if, y’know, it’s nothing but the truth and the whole truth, he solemnly swears.

“What,” Rhodey prods; “ain’t got something to say? Should we just leave it as ‘Tony doesn’t give a fuck about us’?”

Okay, _what._ “Back up. How is this suddenly about―”

“Well, isn’t it? Because I can find no other explanation as to―”

“How is that ever even a _thing_ ? Am I really such a shit friend, especially to _you_ , Rhodes, that you can’t―”

“Then, please do explain _why_ you thought it was a grand fucking idea to ball this all up to yourself and―”

“And you think you could have done _what_ , Rhodey!” he explodes. “Held my hand and fretted over whether I was going to keel over at any second or become a vegetable or _worse_?”

Bruce flinches quietly in his corner, the words ringing hollowly true―that has been his burden to bear, fretting over Tony’s well-being. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Tony―”

“Bruce, don’t shit me on this,” Tony huffs. “You know it’s true.”

Because that’s the kicker, isn’t it? Tony has no way of knowing if he’s going to die or become the next supervillain because of this. And to have Rhodey and Steve and Natasha and Clint and Thor and Pepper and Bruce―and _everyone_ he has or will ever hold dear to his fragmented heart―sitting at his bedside, their lives dwindling as they cry and curse the universe for their inability to prevent this or do something, _anything_? That is―that is the _one hell_ he will never, _ever_ allow _any_ of them to bear.

Rhodey’s face crumbles into itself, pained and resigned with some other emotion Tony can’t―or, rather, won’t―name. “Tony, that’s...hell, that’s―” he flounders. What do you say to something like that?

Did he say all of that out loud?

“Yeah,” Clint says, and he sounds choked, “yes, you did, you jackass. Still doesn’t make me un-pissed off.”

Tony’s eyes flit to Natasha, and there’s no way around it―those really are tears bubbling at the corner of her eyes. He lowers his gaze in respects to her, knowing she hates this side of her humanity above all else, towards Thor, who looks as if someone has eaten all of his PopTarts and then thrown them back up in his face.

And Steve.

He looks as if his whole world has come crashing down upon him, helpless as he becomes the unwilling bystander in the decimation of all Existence. There is a bright sheen to his eyes, a translucidity that reveals and augments their incredibly blue hue. An emotion left unnamed. Unwilling to rise. Unable to stand. Unable to be seen.

[           

_Not yet._

             ]

It’s Bruce, unwilling as he was in keeping Tony’s secrets, who moves first in the stifling silence, rising to a stand and moving to tentatively fold his hand over Tony’s elbow. Silently supporting. “Tony,” he murmurs, goading gently, “why don’t you give them the full run-down?”

“Okay,” he breathes, then louder: “Sit down. I’m saying this once and once only.

“This doesn’t leave this room. You do not breathe it to anyone, not a peep, not a murmur. Full silence. Not until I know what the hell is going on―and, even then, probably not. I don’t wanna end up one of Fury’s experiments or some other equally fucked up shit.”

Tony looks up from his little rant, and would you look at that? They’re still staring at him with those the-world-is-ending eyes.

Well, most of them, anyway.

Like, look at Steve! He’s sitting next to Sexy Metal Arm looking as if someone had decided to violently murder a kitten in front of him―sitting there with this little quirk to the lips, smiling at Tony in that unsuspecting way that is supposed to be encouraging or provide support or some other incredibly wholesome shit.

Yet here Tony is, rather distractedly, thinking of ways to ravish that smile off those stupidly plump lips―and hastingly trampling down the insane urge to throw Barnes off the couch and take up _his_ spot next to Steve’s side.

Natasha really wasn’t that far off with that territorial cat analogy, was she?

 _Ugh_. It really is unfair how attractive Steve is. Why had Howard, in all of his ‘Captain America this, Captain America that’ tangents, never mentioned that titbit of information? It would have been incredibly useful in dealing with Mister Human Perfection over there―helped him build a protective lense from the Apple Pie and American Dreams shtick Steve is so good at.

_J.A.R.V.I.S., buddy?_

_Yes, Sir._

_Kill me now._

The A.I. doesn’t reply, the little shit. See if Tony vamps up his internal memory storage.

“―y! _Tony_ , hey,” Clint calls. “There you are. _Focus_ , man.”

Right. Focusing on Steve’s prettiness shoved to later. Like, in five seconds.

Rhodey looks at him pointedly. “Stark, start spilling, or I’ll start making you.”

Tony grins, dragging a chair obnoxiously loudly across the floor to sit on. “ _Con piacere, dolcezza,_ ” he drawls.

“I swear to God, T, I’ll―”

“Boys, please,” Natasha warns. She’s sitting quite comfortably on Bruce’s lap, using him as her own personal lounge unapologetically. Not that Bruce seems to mind, if the faint blush on his cheeks is anything to go by. Nor do Rhodey and Sam Guy, for that matter, both of which have no choice but to sit squashed besides them or be suffocated under Thor’s bulk.

Tony rolls his eyes. “So finicky.

“I’ll start by saying that as much as I―or Bruce, for that matter―know is all...hypothetical. Sure, I’ve got the bloodwork and all of the other, uh...stuff”―if glowing fluorescent blue under gamma visualization and somehow being able to _see it_ can be called ‘stuff’―“but that’s the boring crap.

“Miss Natalie Rushman here can tell you all about my stint with palladium poisoning. I was dying. It sucked. Created a new element; it’s done with. I fixed it.” He taps his chest, the arc reactor clicking under his touch. “Thing is, even with the shiny new tech, months later I still had the palladium running through my veins, and I had to go through the worst kind of detox―longest shit ever. I still am. Detoxing, I mean. I can’t exactly filter it out of my blood; it’s stuck in my organs, in my tissue―it’s engraved into the molecular level. Think mercury. Palladium is...not awesome, to say the least.

“So, when the weïrd shit started happening? I thought nothing of it. Maybe some minor reaction between the badassium―yes, Barton, I did name it that; stop snickering―and the palladium. The glowing thing only happened when I pressed on skin, so I thought for the longest time I was seeing things, catching light from the corner of my eye. But it only got brighter.”

“ _I was unable to detect Sir’s findings,_ ” J.A.R.V.I.S. flows in; “ _and a visit to an opthamologist brought forth no answers, other than the fact that Sir’s eyesight had mysteriously improved by a fractional margin._ ”

“Nothing major―nothing to pinpoint anything anywhere. Too many factors to consider, too many variables in play.

“Then, New York happened, and, god, I was a mess after that,” he admits quietly, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. “Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t _stop thinking for ten seconds._ I immersed myself into building suit after suit―until the Mandarin came, and, well, everyone knows that story.

“And, then, Cap here decides to explode three helicarriers into the Potomac and alert the whole damn world that S.H.I.E.L.D. has been fucked up for who knows how long. Then, we were busy going after Hydra. Fun stuff.”

Tony folds his hands over his lap. “That’s it. I got nothing else. I― _we_ were busy; it kept slipping my mind. I know it’s no excuse, but the truth is the truth, and, even if you knew, like I said, what could you have done? Other than Brucey, no one here has that sort of training, and I am _not_ willing to let anyone else in on this. Ten people knowing―twelve, if we’re counting the double snoops going by the names of Agent Agent and Happy Hogan―is a shit ton more than I was ever accounting for.”

“Mister Stark,” Barnes says, voice gruff with disuse, “you can’t honestly expect us to sit quietly by while you and Banner alone work on figuring this out.”

Tony bites the instinct to lash out. He doesn’t like the Soldier and Falcon knowing―two unknown factors that could potentially fuck this shit all up. There is no trust among them―hell, Tony only knows Barnes because Howard couldn’t shut up about him either. It’s not their fault, he supposes, but it doesn’t mean Tony has to like it. He hates these unknown factors―hates they might go behind his back and spit this fucked-up shit out, unintentionally or not. But trust has to start somewhere. So, if Steve trusts them? That has to be enough for Tony and will be, unless evidence points to otherwise.

Still doesn’t change his mind, though. “That is exactly what I expect, Sergeant. I fucked up; this is my mess to clean up.”

Clint groans, frustration bleeding through. “God, Stark, stop being such a _schmuck_ . Me and Barnes and Nat―all of the rest of us that don’t include the Genius Squared―we may not have the know-how, but we have our ways of gathering information. _Useful_ information; shit you won’t find by staring into a microscope for hours on end or whatever the hell it is you do. We know people who know people who know people, spiderwebs of mouth to mouth that is ninety-nine point nine percent guaranteed to be entirely anonymous.” He’s incredibly still, eyes deadly and piercing. The Hawkeye. “ _We can help_ . Your fucked up shit is my fucked up shit and vise-versa. That’s how the Avengers have always rolled. So, why the hell does it have to stop at you? You are an Avenger, no matter what ‘consultant status only’ you or anyone else may try to pull. _Let us help_.”

“We’re not going to be your sitting ducks, Tony,” Natasha chimes in. “No hand holding, no fretting. This isn’t―nor shouldn’t―be yours only to bear.”

“Tony,” Bruce says, “let them help.”

The others form their own set of assertion―however unspoken, a decision has been made.

His voice, when he finds what thin air he can, is like gravel grounded by stone. “So, what now?”

“Now?” Steve says, his tone tight with Battle, “Now, we fight. We fight for answers, for whatever may come.” His eyes, brilliantly blue. “We fight for you, Tony, just as you have fought for us.”

 

Tony has never been more in love with the sheer _blue_ of those eyes. Enough that―maybe, _crazily_ ―he might just fall for them.

 

…

 


	3. Part III: Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know; I know. It's short as shit, but I'm already working on the next chapter, so fear not, mes amis!
> 
> By the way, L.E.N.R. is an actual thing. Found it here: http://www.extremetech.com/extreme/149090-nasas-cold-fusion-tech-could-put-a-nuclear-reactor-in-every-home-car-and-plane

…

 

[Part III: Chapter Two]

 

— _ The broken locks were a warning _

_ You got inside my head. _

_ I tried my best to be guarded; _

_ I’m an open book instead _ —

 

Molten sparks coalesce in delicate pyrotechnics, the blowtorch flaring bright blue in the absence of light—the strange, rather new habit that Tony has of working in low lighting. Not that Steve is complaining; he happens to like the manner in which the sparking lights curve over the exposed skin of Tony’s arms. And the way the holographs catch on just the right angle across those shrewd eyes. And how Tony’s tongue tends to poke distractedly past his lips, hair a manic mess. Or that ring of black oil that somehow always manages to smear on that delicate plane of neck, so enticing to the eyes.

“...till Agent hears about this one; he’s going to blow a vein—I can just feel it. You know how he’s all about the spy knick-knacks. Gave him the only hover-car prototype Howard ever managed to make work some years ago; he’s so attached to that thing he named her ‘Lola.’ Lola! Seriously, what kind of name is that?” He huffs something under his breath, too low even for Steve’s senses. It doesn’t sound particularly... _ kind _ , to say the least. “He has a prosthetic arm now, know that? And he doesn’t even have the decency to let me tinker with it.”

That’s something Steve definitely did not know. “But he has two hands?” He saw Phil some days ago to do some recon along with Bucky and Natasha on an abandoned Hydra warehouse. There had been something awfully tense about the agent’s shoulders—visible by a familiar eye only—a fact that Natasha had tutted over. But nothing else amiss.

Tony’s eyes flick over to meet Steve’s across the worktop, peering at him under his lashes. He smiles, and Steve is smitten by those molten pools of obsidian, the soft quirk to those pink lips. God, does he know just how beautiful he is? “Remember that facial thingamajig Natasha is so fond of?”

He nods, gestures at his own face. “The holographic mask thing.”

“One and the same.” Tony raps the end of the blowtorch against the worktop; the metallic pings echo. “That mechanical engineer protégé-slash-prodigy of Agent—whom I am, by the way, going to steal some day and take his girlfriend with for extra brownie points—reconfigured it to fit across a bionic arm. Which Agent now uses in place of the arm he lost doing something or other he won’t spill about.” He points the end of the blowtorch at Steve—you know, the very end that spouts fire and shit; not dangerous at all—and pins him with a hardened stare. “Not cool,” he says with forced levity that does not do a damn thing to hide the hurt lurking in those depths.

Steve has the sudden and irrational urge to have some  _ words _ with Agent Coulson. “I’m sure he has his reasons, Tony.”

Tony rolls his eyes, swivels his chair back around to continue welding.

He withholds a heavy sigh and stands to place a hand on Tony’s tense shoulder. He squeezes gently, rolls a soothing thumb under the collarbone—secretly marvels at the warmth of Tony’s skin. The fact that he gets to do this and not have his hand bitten off. Or blowtorched. And, though Tony won’t catch it, he smiles and breaks away to head back up to the penthouse.

 

…

 

Steve’s hand is a searing imprint on Tony’s shoulder—a brand that he holds under his own hand, dreading the dissipation of its burn.

 

…

 

Bruce and Clint are in the kitchen when Steve arrives from his impromptu stay at the workshop, discussing something or other avidly. And, by ‘avid discussions,’ he means Clint is giggling like a schoolgirl while Bruce tries not to Go Green.

Clint’s snickers continue even as Steve takes a seat by the island. It spells trouble.

“How was your  _ talk _ with our resident billionaire,  _ Steven _ ?”

Bruce coughs pointedly into his fist. He mimes  _ Shut up already _ at the archer when he thinks Steve isn’t looking, but Steve still catches it from the corner of his eye and suppresses a haggard sigh.

Steve raises a brow. “Is that a euphemism, Agent Barton?”

Clint rolls his eyes, splaying himself in front of Steve on the island’s surface. He’s uncomfortably close, Steve thinks, propped up on his fist as if he were posing for a rendition to the  _ Creation of Adam _ . “Am I uncomfortably in your face, Captain?” he shoots back. “So, I reiterate: How was your  _ talk _ with our resident billionaire,  _ Steven _ ?”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. Him and Bucky. Couldn’t they just leave it alone? “We talked. That’s it. Nothing more.”

“Not even a little smooch?” He puckers his lips, flutters them like a fish. “ _ Mum-mum-mum _ ,” he sounds.

Bruce’s palm slapping his own mouth does nothing to quieten his sniggers.

Steve doesn’t find his patience when he turns in askance to the Heavens—in fact, he has a feeling God is laughing at him, too. Because Steve will forever be incapable of following his own advice, cursed to wait too goddamn long for a good thing to come his way. Like Peggy. And now Tony.

Bruce tentatively pats Steve’s shoulder. “I know it’s not much coming from me—”

Clint snorts.

The way Bruce slaps him off so casually speaks to a certain…‘arachnoid’ influence, so to speak. “—but I’ll give you the same advice you gave me: Take your chance before it’s too late.” He smiles gently, and Steve admires how utterly  _ soothing _ and mellow Bruce has become, far from that nervous wreck of a shell the man used to be. “It’s Tony, Steve. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Aaand, now you’ve jinxed it,” Clint singsongs. “First Rule of Spy One-O’-One:  _ Never _ say, ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’  _ Ever _ .”

“ _ Although I am not one for following Agent Barton’s ‘advice’ _ ”—and those definitely are quotation marks in the A.I.’s tone—“ _ I do believe that is a valid rule. Something always has a tendency to go horribly wrong for Sir whenever he remarks that. _ ”

“I am going to wholly ignore in an uncharacteristically mature moment Stark’s perky A.I.’s annoying habit of poking not-so-subtle jabs at me in favour of the Second Rule of Spy One-O’-One: Something  _ always _ goes horribly wrong whenever a Stark so much as utters a derivative of, ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ One hundred percent of the time.”

Steve can’t really argue with that. If at all. So, now he’s definitely jinxed it. Swell.

“Have you found anything new on Tony’s condition, Bruce?” he deflects insteads; there has been enough heartache today to last him a lifetime.

Bruce takes his seat next to Steve. “Nothing new. The element that Tony created, it’s essentially a noble metal. Very stable, very non-reactive. Steve, it’s half-life is  _ a billion times _ that of Tellurium-128. It’s radioactivity is practically non-existent.” No one else in the room quite understands what that means, but the unbridled wonder in Bruce’s eyes says it all. “Tony’s arc reactor runs on cold fusion, harnessing power from the element’s weak nuclear force. It’s a very steady source of energy that can be calibrated to run higher or lower, depending on how much output is needed. N.A.S.A. has been working on something similar called ‘L.E.N.R.’ using nickel, except it keeps melting their windows and exploding their labs.”

Clint whistles. He’s still lying on the table. “Damn. And he built that shit in a cave with a box of scraps.”

“Don’t tell that to N.A.S.A.; something else might blow,” Bruce retorts with quirked lips. “Tony has the energy output partitioning into three different calibrations: one for his pacemaker, another for the electromagnet, and the last for his suits. I don’t know why or how, but Tony’s body has somehow incorporated the by-product of the reactor into almost all of his physiology.”

“Okay, I’m following, like, five percent of what you just said, but what’s this by-product?” Clint asks, finally sitting up so that he is cross-legged instead. Steve takes the concession where he gets it, even if the archer’s booted feet are still on the surface where they ingest their food. “That’s what’s causing all the weïrd shit, right?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what it is—whether it’s some sort of isotope or an entirely different element. All I know is that it’s some sort of liquid metal. And that it likes to meddle, so to speak, with neurotransmitters and electrical impulses.” He gestures at Steve, eyes centered on the latter’s chest. “That feather you carry around—it’s not a feather at all.”

Steve’s brows furrow, heart suddenly in his throat. The plume had been his sole, relentless companion for what his brain defaults as ‘forever,’ it’s presence so familiar it has become an extension of his self. But, now? Now, it feels like a grievous intrusion of privacy, knowing what was once inside Tony’s body now hangs around his neck. As if he had carved out a chunk of Tony’s flesh and then proceeded to embroider it into a trophy—displayed about his neck like a hard-won medal.

That’s not—he has been carrying a piece of Tony? All of these years. This one piece that had turned Tony’s life on its head, the one thing that Tony feared as his greatest weakness. And, even if it was only around the Avengers, Steve had worn it proudly. Everywhere. Every day. All the damn time.

He feels sick.

Is this why Tony has been so distant and hesitant around him? God, he can see it so clearly now: All the times he had stood too close and Tony had stiffened like a rock. The way Tony’s heart would pound, the sound loud enough for Steve’s sensitive hearing to pick up. The flush to his cheeks. The widening of his pupils. As if Steve was dangling Tony’s heart in his hand, taunting, like the world’s cruelest blackmail. 

He wonders why Bruce ever let him keep the feather, when it has so obviously been causing Tony so much distress.

Steve bolts upright, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. How can he? He has become the worst bully to the one person he has promised himself to protect at all costs, and he did not even have the decency to notice. “I have to go,” he says, ignoring Bruce’s confused, “Steve?” that calls after him as he practically sprints from the penthouse and down to the garage levels.

He revs up his bike and doesn’t look back.

 

He has a lot of shit to make up for.

 

…


	4. Part IV: Chapter Three

…

 

[Part IV: Chapter Three]

 

— _ I’m falling Apart; _

_ I’m barely breathing _

_ With a broken heart that’s still beating. _ —

 

The Not-Plume glints tauntingly on Steve’s palm, the glitter ethereal as it pulses like the refraction of light on a river’s surface at night. Unforgivingly beautiful. Daunting. Marvelous. Gentle. 

Steve has always wondered whether the Then-Feather had a mind of its own. It certainly seemed like it: daintily retaining its puffiness under the spray of water; caressing and curving over Steve’s fingers like a flesh-magnet; a spot of light that the darkness has never drowned out. He wonders now if, perhaps, that shimmering pulse follows Tony’s heartbeat, thud by thud—mirroring the essence from which it has flowed.

Or, perhaps, Steve is projecting, yearning for something—for someone—he will never have.

[             

_ Tony. _

]

“You called, Punk?”

Steve turns to smile at the familiar figure of his friend bounding towards him from the shadows. The gesture stutters and dies at the corner of his mouth. His eyes burn. “Hey, Jerk,” he croaks back.

Bucky doesn’t need to be told twice. His phantom arm—the metal one Stark has rebuilt and remade for Bucky and Bucky only; the same one he never lets anyone touch—falls easily around Steve’s broader shoulders, curves the guy into his chest. Always for Stevie, the little guy with too much heart.

Steve hugs him back harder, somewhat awkwardly bending lower at the difference in height. He doesn’t care about how this looks like, two guys hugging it out over a moonlit bridge—neither of them do. Just hangs on to his life-long anchor and lets the tears and the pain and the guilt bleed through like the open wound it is.

There are no sobs or hiccuped words. The shattering of a mask falls silently into the cacophonous cityscape. A part of Bucky is glad; he doesn’t think he can deal with an overly emotional Steve Rogers in the throes of love. Not that he wouldn’t—but there is only so much sorrow you can take on top of the woeful adventures of being a brainwashed puppet who killed the parents of your best friend’s flame.

“Buck,” Steve murmurs, and it falters the Silence that has fallen over them. His voice crackles, coughs to clear it up. “’Screwed up. Real bad.”

Bucky huffs, a breath of air that could almost be called a chuckle. It snakes through Steve’s hair and twirls the locks up into his nose. “My kind or the-world-is-ending kind?”

Steve only shakes his head. “All of these years, I’ve been fighting bullies. Never thought it’d come to the point where what I’ve been fighting all of these years I’ve been all along. Especially to the one fella I promised my heart to.”

Bucky grunts in displeasure.  _ Seriously _ , these two. If they weren’t the most emotionally inept human beings in the entire world, he would’ve shoved the idiots into a closet a crap of a long time ago and let ’em have at it. “Hell, Stevie, you may have the tendency of putting your foot in your big, ole mouth, but the one thing I’ve known for the longest damn time is that you’re the farthest thing from a bully.”

Steve leans back, sharply jerking his head in denial. “Buck, I’ve been  _ manipulating him _ .”

“Steve,” Bucky says slowly, “what the hell are you talking about?”

The words seem to bleed out unbidden from Steve’s mouth: Tony’s quickened heartbeats and dusting cheeks. The Plume turned Not-Plume—Tony’s Unknown, his vulnerability. And Steve flaunting it about like the world’s grandest trophy. “Buck, I kept insisting he should train—god, he probably thought I had known all along and just wanted actual proof that he’s enhanced. To see what he could do out of that suit. He avoided me for  _ weeks _ after that.  _ Weeks _ .”

He has a dissent forming at the tip of his tongue, but he blows it over—no way in hell is he getting in between that whole mess between Stark and Steve. ‘Infatuation’ doesn’t even cover the  _ brunt _ of it. “You ain’t a manipulative bastard, Steve,” he huffs instead. He knows Manipulative Bastard—has known them for seventy goddamn years. Steven G. Rogers is the exact counterpoint—the true antithesis—to everything Hydra and its associates have ever stood for. “And Stark is too damn self-reliant to ever be manipulated—fuck blackmail.”

Steve pulls away, then, and he’s shaking his head, eyes red and distraught. “He won’t look at me.”

Bucky snorts. “Punk, that man’s eyes and your ass are inseparable.”

“Not funny.”

He raises a brow in a very  _ Me, lie? _ manner. “Ask that creepy A.I. Stark has hanging about.”

Steve snorts. “If there’s one thing that I know for certain, Buck, it’s J.A.R.V.I.S.’ loyalty to Tony.”

“I’m sure you can wheedle something outta that fancy gadget,” Bucky smirks.

“ _ Buck _ ,” Steve intones, “c’mon.”

Bucky only laughs, a quiet huff of breath that yet twinkles in the blue of his eyes. Steve misses this, he thinks—the easy way they’ve leaned on each other for what seems longer than Time. That they’ve both been hardened by life—or, in Bucky’s case, crushed and crumbled and burnt like a discarded paper—and yet can still come out the other side with what he likes to believe amounts to something close enough to hope. It’s—well, it’s something other than just ‘ _ nice _ .’

“Thank you,” Steve says into the comfortable silence that follows, “for this.” He shakes his head and chuckles humourlessly. “Most of the time, I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. I woke up here”—here, where Tony thrives and the world fumbles in his path; here, where nothing is black and white and the people are alien and too human—“and it seems all I’ve done since is try to catch up.”

“But you can’t,” Bucky finishes.  _ No one can. _ He smiles, claps the other man on a shoulder. “We’re men out of time, pal; gotta own up to it.”

But first comes first: He punches Steve in the arm.  _ Hard. _

“Ow,  _ Jesus, _ Buck!” Steve yelps, rubbing at the sore spot. “What the hell?”

“You earned it, Punk,” he retorts. “It’s been days since you left the Tower; I’ve just about had it with Stark hounding me about you every damn second. Now, go kiss and make up with that sheik of yours.”

 

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know; I know...I'd promised something a lot longer, but life got in the way...And, though, I'm not entirely happy with this little bit, I'm willing to concede on it, since I probably won't be able to pick up writing as much now that college is back on again (ugh).
> 
> Well, until next chapter, I suppose!


	5. Part V: Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know; I know. I am an awful human being. Well, later than never, I guess...
> 
> (Please don't kill me.)

…

 

[Part V: Chapter Four]

 

— _ I still see your reflection _

_ Inside my eyes _ —

 

[Recap]

 

_ “Thank you,” Steve says into the comfortable silence that follows, “for this.” He shakes his head and chuckles humourlessly. “Most of the time, I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. I woke up here”—here, where Tony thrives and the world fumbles in his path; here, where nothing is black and white and the people are alien and too human—“and it seems all I’ve done since is try to catch up.” _

_ “But you can’t,” Bucky finishes.  _ No one can. _ He smiles, claps the other man on a shoulder. “We’re men out of time, pal; gotta own up to it.” _

_ But first comes first: He punches Steve in the arm.  _ Hard _. _

_ “Ow,  _ Jesus _ , Buck!” Steve yelps, rubbing at the sore spot. “What the hell?” _

_ “You earned it, Punk,” he retorts. “It’s been days since you left the Tower; I’ve just about had it with Stark hounding me about you every damn second. Now, go kiss and make up with that sheik of yours.” _

 

…

 

Which is, of course, exactly, very literally, what Steve ends up doing.

Not on purpose, mind. It just sort of… _ happened _ .

Okay, so, it didn’t just  _ happen _ -happen. There was this thing that Steve had been trying to do and then this other thing happened—yes, okay, he knows that a lot of things keep ‘happening,’ all right—and, then, of course,  _ Tony happened _ as he is wont to do and—

Well.

It went more like this:

  
  


Tony’s glare―well, let’s just leave it at, if looks could kill, Steve would be dead by now. Ten times over. “Hi,” he says, pointedly, “haven’t seen you in a while.”

He’s leaning on the side of Steve’s bedroom door, one hand on the frame and the other on the door itself as if he’d somehow stop Steve from slamming the door in his face, supersoldier strength notwithstanding. 

Not that Steve would actually do that. 

But Tony is in a sort of bend right now, and he can’t be bothered with non-verbal social niceties. Because, see, when Steve disappears, there’s this whole thing where his chest aches as if the arc reactor were compressing down on his heart and tearing it into itty-bitty shreds.

So, yeah, maybe that makes him a hypocrite, considering he had avoided Steve like the plague for some weeks when he had thought Steve was trying to dangle the—the  _ thing _ where he’s all glowy and  _ unnatural _ in his face for team dynamics or some nonshit and then subsequently realized who exactly was in question: specifically, a certain someone whose only mean bone generally consists of beating up the supervillain of the week.

Either way, the point stands: He misses Steve. More than—more than  _ coffee _ when Pepper or Bruce decide to cut him off. 

There’s a towel hanging around Steve’s tank-top-clad shoulders, sweatpants riding low enough on his hips that Tony can see the  _ Stark Industries _ logo of his boxers.

Tony tries not to stare and fails miserably.

“Tony,” Steve says, and why does he sound like someone kicked his puppy?

Tony’s gaze flips rapidly back up to meet Steve’s eyes and—yep, there it is. “I—you know I can’t handle it when you do the Face.”

Steve’s brows draw together and,  _ god _ , Stark, you just  _ had _ to make things worse. “What face?”

“ _That_ face,” he says, waving at the Face. “You know what, it doesn’t matter—not that your face doesn’t matter, just that—look, I—The thing is—” And, oh, would you look at that: Tony Stark, tonguetied. “Why did you leave?” he ends up with, the ‘ _me_ ’ heavily implied. Good god, what the hell is wrong with his mouth today? Why would _he say that?_ _Especially_ in that tone, as if he were going to start bawling or something equally horrifying.

And now Steve’s looking like  _ he _ is going to start bawling, Jesus H. Christ and Tony’s friggin’ big, ole mouth. “I shouldn’t have left like that,” he says, and, wow, that’s a whole new level of Kicked Puppy. “I’m so sorry, Tony. I just—I had some things I had to sort out on my own, and I couldn’t do them here.”

Tony deflates. He drops his hands from the door and door frame—now feeling stupid for standing like that the whole time—and takes the initiative to step into Steve’s space. “Could’ve called or something, at least,” he mumbles under his breath, knowing Steve will catch it, either way. “We”— _ I am _ —”were worried.”

An arm’s length left between them, “I know,” Steve murmurs back; “I’m sorry for worrying you.” His lips barely move, and he barely breathes. Eyeing Tony wearily, as if the latter were a wild animal ready to bolt at a given twitch. 

Which, of course, makes Tony feel like it, too, folding his hands behind his back so as to hide their fidgeting. “Yeah, well, don’t be too sorry. I pulled the same shit a while back. Preaching to the choir and all that.” It’s as close to ‘ _ I’m sorry, too _ ’ as Tony’s ever going to get.

Steve’s lips flit briefly into a smile. “Yeah,” is all he says, with eyes that are too fond and sweet.

Tony clears his throat. “So, uh, wanna catch a movie or something? I haven’t seen the new  _ Jungle Book _ that came out, what, last year? Clint keeps throwing the disk at my face hoping it’ll somehow materialize in my head and magically press play like I’m some damn Blu-Ray.”

Steve huffs a quiet laugh at that, and Tony smiles in ‘ _ success! _ ’ “Sure, Tony, we can do that.”

Which is how Steve finds himself with an arm around the back of the couch—yes, okay, he’s not fooling anyone; leave him alone—and a sleepy Tony nodding off somewhere between  _ Raiders of the Lost Ark _ and  _ The Last Crusade _ .

He’s cute like this, Steve thinks, with his legs splayed out haphazardly and his head tilted back and to the side until he’s almost-not-quite cuddling into Steve’s neck; long, lush lashes that bob shadows over sharp cheekbones and lips parted on soft snores. [He’d like to say he’s not staring, but the truth is unmitigated—besides, it’s not like he’ll get an opportunity like this within the next century.]

That’s when he first notices it.

He confuses it for the light of the TV at first. But, no, there it is: faint and blue and  _ enticing _ . It rides along Tony’s skin from the corner of his right eye and under the collar of his button-up and then up again to the side of his neck until it pops up again around the backs of his fingers. The light keeps dancing, flickering in new places and disappearing altogether at random intervals.

Tentatively, he presses a finger against Tony’s carotid, where the blue has stopped momentarily, and the light intensifies with a pulse and such a sudden wave of heat that Steve has to snap back his finger and stick it in his mouth to cool off the blistering burn of it. Tony doesn’t even twitch.

The light flickers once more and dissipates.  _ What the hell…? _

Not three seconds later, it pops up again at the underside of Tony’s wrist, and,  _ fuck _ , yep, still burns.

He knows what this is, suddenly, knows it in his soul—that this is Tony’s Nightmare, his Undoing.

It’s beautiful.

_ He _ ’s beautiful.

Blue has always suited Tony well, he thinks. Arc reactor blue.

[He thinks he’s been maybe staring too intently at a sleeping man’s unwitting face. He can’t find it in himself to care.]

God, how can a human being be so  _ beautiful _ ?

Tony looks good with blue eyes. Chocolate brown and slate blue.

Wait.

“Steve,” Tony mumbles, his breath hot and tickling against Steve’s throat, “d’f’ck ar’you starin’ at me in my sleep for? There’s…” He waves a hand. “Boundaries. I think. Fuck, I’m too sleep deprived for this shit.”

Steve tries not to mourn too heavily Tony’s warmth as it pulls away. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to stare. It’s just—”  _ How to Explain to Someone that They Glow in their Sleep 101 _ , he thinks with a voice that sounds eerily like Clint’s. “You’re—your eyes,” he settles on. “They’re blue.”

Tony’s hand comes up to his face, hovering over his zygomatic as if his hand were a mirror. He seems to realize the useless gesture after a minute, chronic exhaustion taking its toll, and the hand drops like a cut limb. “Oh,  _ fuck _ ,” he says. “ _ Fuck. _ Fuck-ety-fuck- _ fuck _ .” The curses falls from his lips like running water, one “fuck” after another after another after another. His eyes are squeezed shut, as if he could bleed the blue out, and Steve mourns their loss, despite feeling like a dick for even despairing them in the first place.

“Are—” Okay, stupid question. There’s no ‘okay’ in this context anywhere. “Should I get someone? Bruce?”

Tony shakes his head. “No. No, don’t bother. Bruce knows about it. It’s a  _ thing _ that happens when…well, there’s not really any ‘when’ so much as ‘hey, bitch, I’m up now.’ ’Goes away eventually.”

Steve doesn’t really know what that means, but he’ll settle for ‘random’ as a tentative translation. “I take it it doesn’t happen often?”

Tony huffs a humourless laugh. His eyes are still squeezed shut. “More often than I’d like.”

“Do you, uh…glow?” His Inner Clint would probably have continued with, “Like a freaky light show,” but he doesn’t think Clint’s brand of humour, borrowed or not, would ease Tony’s mood. “In other places, I mean. When that happens.”

“Uh,” Tony says, and, wow, those are really blue eyes, “no?”

“There was this light going at random places,” he tries to explain. “It’s why I was staring.” Okay,  _ not _ entirely the truth, but that’s between him, his mind, and probably J.A.R.V.I.S.. “And when I pressed down on it”—oh, god, someone kill him—“it burned like fire.”

Tony’s cheeks go weïrdly pink at that. “We really need to talk about boundaries, Cap.”

He hides his face in his hands, ears burning. “Oh, gosh, Tony, I’m so sorry; that was entirely inappropriate of me—”

Tony guffaws a laugh. “Did you just willing use ‘gosh’ in a sentence? And I’m teasing, Big Guy; don’t get your panties in a twist. Just…maybe more consensual touching next time, yeah?”

“Yeah.” His cheeks are still burning. [Why does he have to phrase shit like that?] “I’m really sorry, Tony.”

Tony smiles, a sweet, soft curve to his lips. Like he’s never heard someone actually say those words to him after what Steve imagines is a situation that happens more often than not. “Apology accepted, Cap.” He clears his throat, fist over his mouth. It doesn’t really do much to hide the smirk. “So, uh, how hot was I?”

Steve stares at him. “How long have you been waiting to use that line?”

Tony grins. “Way too fucking long. But, seriously, temperature-wise—I need data, Watson.”

“Like I said, burned like fire. Or boiling water. Couldn’t really tell. I had blisters on my fingers.” He wiggles them. “Gone now, though.”

“Ouch,” Tony winces, “damn, sorry, I need to make a warning about that or something.”

He tries not to stare incredulously. “You’re not worried that your body is burning hotter than at least twice its normal temperature?”

“Cap,” Tony says, “I’ve got bigger things to worry about than the temperature of my body. Crazier shit happens when I cut my finger.” He points at Steve’s chest—at Steve’s Feather. “Crazy shit like  _ that _ thing you carry around.  _ That _ is my main problem. The heat, I’ve learned, is just a catalyst. A catalyst for what is the bigger question—that, and how hot do I need to get?”

Steve’s hand drifts over the Not-Plume. “I—” He feels cornered, suddenly. Defensive. He swallows it down, ash in his throat.  _ It’s Tony’s _ , he reminds himself.  _ It  _ is _ Tony, in a way _ . “A catalyst?”

“Every reaction has a threshold potential—and a catalyst to kickstart it. Question is, how high is the threshold and what the hell is the reaction  _ for _ in the first place. Like, am I going to combust into a million bits, or will I suddenly have the ability to phase through walls or some nonshit?” He rubs a tired hand over his eyes. “Too many goddamn questions and not enough of anything to really give even one answer.”

Steve can only stare. There are no words of comfort for this—nothing that he or anyone could say that’d make this all  _ better _ . He doesn’t think Tony would appreciate useless platitudes, at any rate, and Steve wouldn’t know what to say even if it bit him on the ass.

“What is new,” Tony continues, as if Steve’s silence weren’t ubiquitous, “is that someone other than me and Bruce—and, well, J.A.R.V.I.S., under certain circumstances—was able to see it, much less  _ feel _ it.” He squints at Steve, then, as if he were examining him under a microscope that has gone out of focus. “But maybe that’s just you, super-soldier and all. That or enough proximity to  _ that _ thing you keep as a glorified pendant over an extended period of time. Fifty-fifty shot, give or take, but I’m leaning towards the latter considering you haven’t been able to see it before.”

Steve smiles softly at him and confesses, almost near a murmur, “I’d like to think that, too,” and Tony goes strangely eyes-averted, fidgeting-hands again. It’s—it’s  _ cute _ , okay, and utterly endearing; Steve knows he has a problem. 

He blames it on the endorphins for what he does next.

“Tony, I—” He breathes deep, steels himself. He’s doing this, apparently. Right now. This is going to end  _ astoundingly _ —“I’d like to—or, well, if you’d like, that is—what I mean to say is, would you—I—that is—”

He’d like to keep going, he really would, except he finds there’s no air in the room and his face is on fire and his heart is beating out of his chest and his palms are too damn sweaty and he’s sure everything is written on his face and, god, he might go into an asthma attack soon at this rate and Tony’s giggling like a madman and taking his hand and saying, “Yes, I’d love to, whatever you’re literally dying to say; can you please breathe now? I only know one type of CPR and it isn’t the life-saving kind,” and then he’s hugging Tony a little too hard and Tony squeaks and flails his arms and he’s hiding his furnace-face in the crook of Tony’s neck and his lips are pressed against Tony’s neck and he can feel Tony’s heartbeat racing and, gosh, that’s not any good for someone with a heart condition—

And then he stops and breathes because, well, he’s kissing Tony’s neck and Tony said  _ yes _ .

He said  _ yes _ .

 

….

 

So, well, there was no kissing  _ with _ , precisely, but there was a definition of kissing- and Tony-involvement going on—and, wow, there goes Furnace-Face Rogers again—but, well, Tony said  _ yes _ .

_ Yes _ .

Okay, so, he’s maybe fixated on that particular word a little too much, yet there’s no helping his brain. It’s fried. It’s burnt out. It’s dead and dying.

He’s  _ alive _ .

“I have a horrible feeling about this,” Clint’s voice says, and is that a hand? “Wow, very fried. Who here killed Captain America? Start lining up so I can give you a trophy.”

“Lay off, Barton,” and that’s Tony— _ TonyTonyTonyyesI’dloveto _ —“I think he had a stroke yesterday or something. He was touching me in my sleep. Okay,  _ bad _ mouth, that was  _ not _ I was going for. Where the fuck is the coffee?”

“To your left, upper right cabinet towards the back,” Bruce’s voice says from his left, a paper rustling. “You hid it there last night thinking I somehow wouldn’t be aware of its existence so you could make yourself more after you were explicitly cut off.”

“But,  _ Bruuuce _ , honey-bunny, greeny-beany, how am I supposed to work without sustenance? And is that an actual, real-life paper? Where the hell did you get that shit? They wrap fish in that.”

“It’s your mandatory week off. You’re  _ not _ supposed to work,” Bruce says with an echo of, “Some of us are normal humans, Tony,” and that smoky drawl could only belong to Nat.

“ _ Shit! _ Okay, you know what? Bell. You and him. Bells. Period. You are not allowed anywhere without a damn bell.”

He can’t see her, but Steve would know the sound of that smirk anywhere.

“Is no one else here worried about the fact that our prized and esteemed leader here is brain dead?”

“What the fuck am I, then, the unvalued and despised leader? See if I make those arrows you’ve been begging me about.” Then, softer, “Well, perks is, at least, my brain is fully functioning.”

“Aww, no, arrows!”

“Your brain is beyond functioning, Tony,” Nat says. “And you’re not a leader; you’re reserved Team Mom.”

“Then who’s on reserved Team Dad?” Sam counters. Wait. Sam?

“Spot is open,” Bucky replies in a lazy drone. “There’s a lotto running for it. Morning Sex and Holy Fuck We Just Survived the Apocalypse Sex guaranteed, see store for details.”

“I would argue against that,” Tony says, nearer now, and Steve feels his warmth at his right like sunlight, “but it’s depressing how down for that I’d be.”

And those are lips brushing against his neck and Barton going, “Ew, fuck, eye bleach.”

“Agent Agent would kill me if I’d somehow damaged the goods. Wakey-wakey, Cappuccino.”

He blinks, and Tony’s— _ TonyTonyTonyyesI’dloveto _ —visage comes into view, like running a towel over a foggy mirror. “Hi,” he breathes, loopy smile and all. He figures he’s allowed to be spacey and gooey for one day or two. 

“Hey,” Tony says back, smile just as loopy. “Was wondering if you’d really kicked the bucket for a moment there, Cap. A dollar for your thoughts?”

“A dollar?” Steve replies. “What happened to the penny?”

Tony waves a hand. “Inflation,” he explains. “And you’re avoiding the question. I’ll let it pass, though, since you probably lost a few brain cells not breathing yesterday.”

“The fu—” Clint begins. “You know what? I don’t want to know. If I hear about it from any of you,” he says, pointing a little too specifically at Sam and Natasha, “who may or not have had the unfortunate privilege of witnessing last night’s goings-on, there may or not be Kool-Aid in your showerhead for the next three weeks.”

“Steve and I had sex yesterday,” Tony declares. “Very angry, very manly, very wet and sweaty,  _ hot _ sex.”

“We did  _ n _ —” Steve sputters.

Tony flaps a hand at his face. “Ignore this one; he’s still traumatized from all of the amazing sex we had. He’s still in shock. Give him a moment and the memories will start to pop back.”

“Something else will also pop up,” Bucky stage-whispers, and Steve turns to glare at him.

“ _ Nothing _ is popping up, all right? Tony and I had an impromptu movie night, and I—”

_ yesI’dloveto _

_ yesI’dloveto _

_ yesI’dloveto _

“Wow, seriously, Stark, the fuck did you do? He just short-circuited again.”

“I didn’t do anything!” 

“And there’s the famous Stark Pout TM ,” Bucky mumbles next to him.

“Well, obviously,  _ something _ happened. Look at him! He’s all  _ gooey _ and glazed-eyed.”

“I―Nothing happened.”

“Is that a blush? Good fuck, what the hell is wrong with this morning. First Cap is all brain-mush and then our super-macho Mom is actually  _ blushing _ .”

“I do  _ not blush _ .”

“Uh-huh,” Nat says with faux agreement, “that’s precisely why your cheeks are flushed.”

“So,” Sam wheedles. “What really happened? I’d know Steve’s I-just-got-sexed face anywhere, and that ain’t it.”

“Uh,” Clint interjects, “gross? What the fuck, man?”

“ _ Ugh _ . For fuck’s sake! We had an impromptu movie night, and then he started going all panicky on me trying to ask me out―Oh.  _ Oh. _ ” His voice drops to a whisper. “Holy shit,  _ ohmigod _ .”

“Yep, there it is. He finally got it. Oh, man, his  _ face _ ,” Clint laughs; “Nat! Give me your phone; I need to immortalize this moment.”

“Guys,” Bruce calls out into the ensuing laughter, “what are we going to do with both of our co-leaders out of commission?”

A pause. Then:

“Aw, shit,” Clint groans. “Someone call Phil. This is officially a Level Eight Avengers Emergency.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with the chapter, but, eh. It's as good as it's gonna get. Hope you still like it, either way :)


	6. Part VI: Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know; I know. I am a horrible person, and this took me forever and a half to post. Hopefully, next update will come around much sooner. (I hope.) Until then, enjoy the newest read!

…

 

[Part VI: Chapter Five]

 

— _ I still see your reflection _

_ Inside my eyes _ —

 

Okay, so,  _ maybe _ there wasn’t any actual lip-on-lip action that went down, and the author was just trying to be willingly misleading. But here’s the thing:  _ He’s with Tony _ . As in,  _ with _ -with. That rates above any physical pleasure, he believes, because it’s the sort that last more than the moment in which it’s happening. It’s  _ forever. _ Or, well, he’d love for it to be, if Tony will have someone like him for that long.

Though, if he ever actually gets to kiss Tony―just once, for even the most fleeting second―Steve thinks he might  _ burst _ .

Except―except it’s been  _ two months _ , and Tony and he have gone on a grand total of seventeen dates (movie nights included). Yet not once―not  _ once _ have they kissed each other on anything but the cheek or the hand.  And it’s not like Tony suddenly finds the concept of kissing utterly appalling. It’s just…

It’s just, every time he’s thinking of leaning in that last inch, he freezes up. He can’t breathe. He can’t move. The world fades away, and all he sees are Tony’s big, beautiful eyes. And he just. He just― _ ugh! _ He just  _ stands there _ like a dolt,  _ staring _ , and then Tony’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles and huffs a laugh and says, “Thanks for tonight, Big Guy; I had a blast,” or “Let’s do this again, my treat,” or sometimes, simply, “Night, Cap.”

And Steve―he can’t help but  _ melt _ . So, every time, he’ll smile back, hoping all of the tenderness and love he feels for this amazing man is plain upon his face for Tony to glean, and he’ll reply, “Thank you, Tony,” and lean down those several inches to kiss Tony at the highest corner of his cheek so that he can feel the tickle of Tony’s long lashes as they flutter down with a little hitched breath.

“And then you bolt ass because the  _ Little Captain _ decided to stand up to attention in your pants,” Clint surmises. He giggles at his own joke and waggles his eyebrows at Bucky when he hears the man snort.

Steve hangs his head in defeat. He’s been enduring this endless teasing―however true it may or may not be―for almost as long as he’s been pining for Tony’s lips.

“Man,” Sam says with a rather judgemental quirk of the brow, “I haven’t seen this since  _ high school _ .”

“Give it up, Sam,” Bucky drones; it’s how he’s taken to talking lately for reasons unknown as of yet. “Stevie’s a hopeless romantic.”

“I don’t know,” Natasha drawls; “it’s not like they’ve been dating.”

Steve turns to glare at her. “You know what, Romanov?” And then he hangs his head with an unvoiced sigh. The truth hurts, so they say.

“You know what I’m more surprised about?” Clint interjects. “That Tony hasn’t gone in for the kill yet.”

 

…

 

“Bruce,” Tony―yes, he admits it―whines, “I wanna kiss Steve but he’s too damn  _ adorable _ .” And that’s another thing: Never in his life had he thought he would come to think of another grown-ass man as  _ adorable. _

Bruce briefly glances up around his shoulder at him over the rim of his glasses. Hunched over the set of slides he has been preparing for the last third of an hour or so as he is, Tony thinks he can finally glimpse into the realm of “Mad Scientist, where the crazy lurks” that Pepper likes to accuse him of residing in. “And this is somehow in my field of expertise…?”

“Honeybunch, Brucie,” Tony retorts, “you’re dating the  _ Black Widow _ .”

“Yeah, and you’re dating  _ Captain America _ ,” Bruce shoots back.

They stare at each other for a moment long enough to become awkward, and that’s when Tony burst into laughter. “We’ve landed ourselves a pair, haven’t we, buddy?”

Bruce ducks his head and takes off his glasses to clean the lenses, an embarrassed tick he has yet to get rid of. “I, uh,” he says in a stammer, “I don’t think I ever thanked you for that.”

Tony pokes his head up from where he’s studying the displays J.A.R.V.I.S. has pulled up from Bruce’s data. “I’m fairly sure I’m the one dating the guy in the spangly outfit.”

Bruce smiles wryly. “I know you know what I’m talking about, Tony.”

Tony shrugs. “Yeah, well, not like I did much other than spill your dirty little secrets, which I’m fairly sure goes against the ScienceBro Code.”

“I think there’s an exception for excessive pigheadedness and unwitting blindness,” Bruce counters wryly. 

“If that’s the case,” Tony says. “See anything new? Uh, actually―”  _ That’s weïrd _ , he relays to J.A.R.V.I.S. There are mitochondria in his erythrocytes; his normoblasts should be ejecting those along with the nuclei during erythropoiesis. Theoretically, the aerobic respiration occurring in the mitochondria should be consuming the oxygen molecules the erythrocytes were transporting. He should be hypoxic. Why isn’t he hypoxic? Also, what the fuck is his body doing with all of the extra ATP?

_ I appears the badassium derivative has successfully transformed your red blood cells into a mutated tissue, Sir, with a physiology closer to that of muscle and nerve cells. _

“Tony?”

“Uh, hold a sec.”  _ Like, with neurotransmitters and the whole action potential shebang? _

_ I believe the signaling is based on a radiative/thermal energy response rather than an electrical one. It is perhaps why Captain Rogers was burned when he initiated contact with your body. The blue-white of your ‘glow,’ as you like to call it, would be consistent of indications of such high temperatures. _

_ Like a star. _ “J.A.R.V.I.S. says I’m a star.”

“Uh, what?” is Bruce’s bewildered reply.

_ Sir, I said no such thing _ , the A.I. interjects indignantly.

_ You totally did _ . “He totally did. J.A.R.V.I.S. is a lying liar who lies. Don’t listen to what he says; he’s totally lying. Also, I have mutated erythrocytes that like to glow blue and burn supersoldiers.” And, because his A.I. is a total snitch, J.A.R.V.I.S. pulls up the deep-imaging of his blood cells and the multiple comparison graphs of the different cells in question onto Bruce’s systems. 

Bruce’s visage is glowing computer-white, the glare on his glasses not doing much to disguise the sheer awe and curiosity in his eyes. “This is―this is  _ amazing _ . Based on J.A.R.V.I.S.’ calculations, you should be able to control this tissue voluntarily. If I could send this to Hank―”

“McCoy? Because Pym has had a grandstanding dick contest with Howard since I was, like,  _ ten _ ―”

“―I mean, look at this! There are striking similarities between your cells and that of a mutant technopath’s―”

“―and he’s held this sort of weïrd grudge against my entire family lineage? Then again, Hope has always said that Pym’s just a senile old guy with delusions of grandeur―”

“―and, if I’m right, I think you’ve been controlling this on a subconscious level, which is why your constant need to be connected to J.A.R.V.I.S.―”

“―it’s not a  _ need _ ―”

“―probably led to your current  _ technopathic _ connection with J.A.R.V.I.S. and why you formed that feather when you were cussing out Hawkeye―”

“―it is a totally rational urge to―”

“―which means that you could potentially control your armor remotely psionically or even  _ create _ a symbiotic―” And that’s when Bruce realizes whom the fuck he’s talking to, and his eyes broaden in alarm. “Tony,  _ no _ ―”

Tony grabs Bruce by the cheeks and smacks a kiss on his lips. “Bruce, you beautiful brain, you are a  _ genius _ ―”

“ _ Tony _ , that was seriously not a―”

“Uh,” Clint’s voice interrupts, and two pairs of eyes immediately swivel to face the incomer standing before the ajar doors of the lab. Clint hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Should I come back?”

Tony’s hands, still stuck on Bruce’s raspy cheeks, vibrate Bruce’s head in a little  _ hoorah! _ “I’m a star!” he proclaims at the same time Bruce says, “He’s a technopath,” like everything is perfectly normal.

“Riiiight.” Clint slowly inches out of the lab. “I’m gonna go get the A Team to put you both to bed; I think you’ve been down here too long.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Symbiotic exoskeletal armour, coming right up! Also, I've recently joined tumblr (yes, I know; I am horribly late at everything).
> 
> Come find me at [that616marvel](https://that616marvel.tumblr.com)! Feel free to PM me or drop an Ask Me Anything :)


	7. Part VII: Chapter Six

…

 

[Part VII: Chapter Six]

 

_Hanging on another day—_

_―Just to see what you throw my way_

 

“This is a horrible idea.”

 

…

 

It’s the world’s worst horrible idea.

Until the armour _breathes_ from his skin.

It’s the Mk II test flight all over again―except, instead, he feels J.A.R.V.I.S. like a comforting blanket around him and the armour like a literal extension of his own self.

On the swoop down back to Earth, he takes Steve on their first shared flight.

It is only there, under the darkened heavens sprinkled with stars, that Tony finds the courage to finally lean in those last few inches and kiss Steve.

_It’s everything._

 

…

 

Later, when they’re getting ready for an intense cuddle in bed, Tony is startled by Steve suddenly swooping in behind him. He’s twirled and twirled about, Steve’s face pressed to his neck, until he’s almost dizzy with it.

Steve drops him back down and turns him around to wrap him into a hug that could almost be crushing.

Tony hugs back with everything he has. But, still, it’s a little weïrd, despite the night they’ve had. “Steve?”

Steve silences his voice with a quick peck to the lips. He shakes his head, a helpless grin on his face. “Tony,” he breathes, his happiness stealing his voice. He folds a hand around the titanium chain hanging about his neck. “Look.”

Tony’s eyes flick down to the chain, expecting to see the usual Feather―and finds a ring instead. He blinks, startled. “Uh, what?”

“When we flew, remember―you pressed your hand to my chest”―he gestures upon Tony’s own, his large palm warm against the reactor―”right before you―right before―”

Tony grins. “I kissed you?”

“Yeah.” Steve smiles back, helpless still. “I felt a heat, and I thought―I thought that was just me _feeling_ you, but it was―” He gestures with the chain, and the ring hanging from it clinks softly.

Tony swallows thickly. “I’ve always been a little ahead of myself.” His eyes flick to Steve’s eyes to gauge his reaction.

He needn’t worry. Steve’s smile overtakes back into a grin. “Yes,” is all he says.

“Yes?” Tony reiterates, hope warring in his chest.

 _“Yes,”_ Steve agrees and, in the next moment, dips Tony backwards into a kiss.

 

…

 

Needless to say, they don’t quite _sleep_ that night.

 

…

 

“You’re getting _what?”_ Clint starts the next morning.

“Well,” Natasha drawls, “it’s about damn time.”

 

 

 

_Le fin_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be some four chapters longer, but this is as far as my brain is allowing me to go. After so long battling with this fic, I refused to simply let it lie for _forever_. Nonetheless, I still hope enough satisfaction was garnered from this.
> 
> Thank you to all of you for your marvelous support throughout this fic! Kudos!


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